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UNIVERSITY 
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From  the  Library  of 
Dr.  R.  E.  Hieronymus 
1942 


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Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


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’  V .  ’ 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


ELLA  WHEELER, 

Author  of  “  Maurine”  and  other  poems. 


pemot 


STORAGE 

a.—  * 


“  Some  said,  4  John,  print  it  ’ ;  others  said,  ‘  Not  so  ’  : 
Some  said,  4  It  might  do  good  ’  ;  others  said,  No.’  ” 

John  Bnnyan. 


CHICAGO,  NEW  YORK,  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO. 

1889. 


Copyright,  1883. 

By  ELLA  WHEELER 


>/  «*  ^  L!2~ 


%  1 1 

w  ofo 

mi  • 


Oh,  you  who  read  some  song  that  I  have  sung-— 
What  knozv  you  of  the  soul  from  whence  it  sprung  f 

Dost  dreatti  the  poet  ever  speaks  aloud 
His  secret  thought  unto  the  listening  crowd  ? 

Go  take  the  murmuring  sea-shell  from  the  shore — 
You  have  its  shape ,  its  color  —  and  no  more. 

It  tells  not  one  of  those  vast  mysteries 
That  lie  beneath  the  surface  of  the  seas 

Our  songs  are  shells ,  cast  out  by  waves  of  thought ; 
Here ,  take  them  at  your  pleasure  ;  but  think  not 

You'’ ve  seen  beneath  the  surface  of  the  waves , 

Where  lie  our  shipwrecks and  our  coral  caves. 


I  I  94654 


PREFACE. 


Among  the  twelve  hundred  poems  which  have 
emanated  from  my  too  prolific  pen,  there  are  some 
forty  or  fifty  which  treat  entirely  of  that  emotion 
which  has  been  denominated  the  u  grand  passion  ” — 
love.  A  few  of  those  are  of  an  extremely  fiery  character. 

When  I  issued  my  collection  known  as  “  Maurine, 
and  Other  Poems,”  I  purposely  omitted  all,  save  two  or 
three  of  these.  I  had  been  frequently  accused  of 
writing  only  sentimental  verses;  and  I  took  pleasure 
and  pride  in  presenting  to  the  public  a  volume  which 
contained  more  than  one  hundred  poems  upon  other 
than  sentimental  topics.  But  no  sooner  was  the  book 
published  than  letters  of  regret  came  to  me  from 
friends  and  strangers,  and  from  all  quarters  of  the 
globe,  asking  why  this,  or  that,  love  poem  was  omitted. 
These  regrets  were  repeated  to  me  by  so  many  people 
that  I  decided  to  collect  and  issue  these  poems  in  a  small 
volume  to  be  called  “  Poems  of  Passion.”  By  the 
word  “  Passion,”  I  meant  the  “  grand  passion  ”  of  love. 
To  those  who  take  exceptions  to  the  title  of  the  book  I 
would  suggest  an  early  reference  to  Webster’s  defini¬ 
tions  of  the  word. 


2 


PREFACE. 


Since  this  volume  has  caused  so  much  agitation 
throughout  the  entire  country,  and  even  sent  a  tremor 
across  the  Atlantic  into  the  Old  World,  I  beg  leave  to 
make  a  few  statements  concerning  some  of  the  poems. 

The  excitement  of  mingled  horror  and  amaze  seems 
to  center  upon  four  poems,  namely:  “Delilah,”  “Ad 
Finem,”  “  Conversion,”  and  “  Communism.” 

“  Delilah  ”  was  written  and  first  published  in  1877.  ^ 

had  been  reading  history,  and  became  stirred  by  the 
power  of  such  women  as  Aspasia  and  Cleopatra,  over 
such  grand  men  as  Antony,  Socrates  and  Pericles. 
Under  the  influence  of  this  feeling  I  dashed  off 
“  Delilah,”  which  I  meant  to  be  an  exoression  of  the 
powerful  fascination  of  such  a  woman  upon  the  memory 
of  a  man,  even  as  he  neared  the  hour  of  death.  If  the 
poem  is  immoral,  then  the  history  which  inspired  it  is 
immoral.  I  consider  it  my  finest  effort. 

“  Ad  Finem  ”  was  written  in  1878.  I  think  there  are 
few  women  of  strong  character  and  affections,  who 
cannot,  either  from  experience  or  observation,  under¬ 
stand  the  violent  intensity  of  regret  and  despair  which 
sometimes  takes  possession  of  the  human  heart  after  the 
loss  by  death,  fate,  or  the  force  of  circumstances,  of 
some  one  very  dear. 

In  “  Ad  Finem,”  I  intended  to  give  voice  to  this  very 
common  experience  of  almost  every  heart.  Many 
noble  women  have  since  told  me  that  the  poem  was 


PREFACE. 


3 


true  to  life.  It  is  not,  as  many  people  have  wilfully  or 
stupidly  construed  it,  a  bit  of  poetical  advice  to  woman¬ 
kind  to  “ barter  the  joys  of  Paradise”  for  “just  one 
kiss.”  It  is  simply  an  illustration  of  a  moment  of 
turbulent  anguish  and  vehement  despair,  such  moments 
of  unreasoning  and  overwhelming  sorrow,  as  the  most 
moral  people  may  experience  during  a  lifetime. 

In  “  Communism,”  I  endeavored  to  use  a  new  simile 
in  illustrating  that  somewhat  hackneyed  theme  of  the 
supremacy  of  Love  over  Reason;  and  simply  to  carry 
out  my  idea,  I  represented  the  violent  uprising  of  the 
Communist  emotions  against  King  Reason. 

“  Conversion  ”  was  suggested  to  me  by  the  remark 
of  a  gentleman  friend.  In  speaking  to  me  of  the 
woman  he  loved,  he  said: 

“  I  have  always  been  a  skeptic  regarding  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  heaven,  but  I  am  so  much  happier  in  my  love 
for  this  woman,  than  I  ever  supposed  it  possible  for  me 
to  be  on  earth,  that  I  begin  to  believe  the  tales  of  heav¬ 
enly  raptures  may  be  true.” 

I  embodied  his  idea  in  the  poem  which  has  brought 
with  a  few  others,  so  much  censure  and  criticism  upon 
this  volume,  although  it  contains  nearly  seventy-five 
other  selections  quite  irreproachable  in  character,  how¬ 
ever  faulty  they  may  be  in  construction. 

It  is  impossible  to  pursue  a  successful  literary  career 
and  follow  the  advice  of  all  one’s  “  best  friends.”  I  have 


4 


PREFACE. 


received  severe  censure  from  my  orthodox  friends  for 
writing  liberal  verses.  My  liberal  friends  condemn  my 
devout  and  religious  poems  as  “  aiding  superstition.” 
My  early  temperance  verses  were  pronounced  u  fanatical 
trash  ”  by  others. 

With  all  due  thanks  and  appreciation  for  the  kind 
motives  which  interest  so  many  dear  friends  in  my 
career,  I  yet  feel  compelled  to  follow  the  light  which 
my  own  intellect  and  judgment  cast  upon  my  way, 
rather  than  any  one  of  the  many  conflicting  rays  which 
other  minds  would  lend  me. 


ELLA  WHEELER. 


CONTENTS. 


- ♦ - — 

POEMS  OF  PASSION. 

Love’s  Language . 9 

Impatience . 12 

Communism . 14 

The  Common  Lot . 16 

Individuality . 18 

Friendship  after  Love . 21 

Queries  . . 22 

Upon  the  Sand . .24 

Reunited  .  25 

What  Shall  We  Do . 27 

“The  Beautiful  Blue  Danube ” . 29 

Answered . 32 

Through  the  Valley . 34 

But  One . 36 


6 


CONTENTS . 


Guilo . 37 

The  Duet . 39 

Little  Queen . 42 

Wherefore . 44 

Delilah . 46 

Love  Song . 49 

Time  and  Love . 51 

Change . 53 

Desolation . 55 

Is  aura . 57 

Not  Quite  the  Same . 59 

From  the  Grave . 61 

A  Waltz-Quadrille . 63 

Beppo . 66 

Tired  . . 68 

The  Speech  of  Silence . 70 

Conversion . 72 

Love’s  Coming . 75 

Old  and  New . 76 

Perfectness . .78 

Bleak  Weather . 79 

Gracia . 82 

Ad  Finem  . . 84 

New  and  Old . 87 

The  Trio  .  88 

An  Answer  .  .  89 

You  Will  Forget  Me . 91 

The  Farewell  of  Clarimonde . 93 


CONTENTS .  7 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Lost  Garden  . . 99 

Art  and  Heart . 102 

As  by  Fire . 104 

If  I  Should  Die . 106 

Misalliance . 107 

Response . 109 

Drought . .  .  .  m 

The  Creed. . 112 

Progress . 113 

My  Friend  . . 115 

Red  Carnations . .116 

Life  is  Too  Short . .118 

A  Sculptor  „ . .119 

Creation . 120 

Beyond  .  .....121 

The  Saddest  Hour . .123 

Show  Me  the  Way  . . 124 

My  Heritage  . . 126 

Resolve  . . 128 

At  Eleusis . 129 

Courage  .  .  .  .  ,  130 

Solitude  . . 13 1 

The  Year  Outgrows  the  Spring . 133 

The  Beautiful  Land  of  Nod  ........  135 

The  Tiger  . . 137 

Only  a  Simple  Rhyme . 138 

I  Will  be  Worthy  of  It . 140 


8 


CONTENTS . 


Sonnet . 142 

Let  Me  Lean  Hard . 143 

Penalty . 145 

Sunset  . . 146 

The  Wheel  of  the  Breast . 147 

A  Meeting . 149 

Earnestness  ..............  15  i 

A  Picture . 152 

Mockery  .  153 

Twin-born . 154 

Floods  ...........  155 

Regret  . . 157 

A  Fable  . . 158 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


LOVE’S  LANGUAGE. 

How  does  Love  speak  ? 

In  the  faint  flush  upon  the  telltale  cheek, 

And  in  the  pallor  that  succeeds  it ;  by 
The  quivering  lid  of  an  averted  eye — 

The  smile  that  proves  the  parent  to  a  sigh 

/ 

Thus  doth  Love  speak. 

How  does  Love  speak  ? 

By  the  uneven  hearth-throbs,  and  the  freak 
Of  bounding  pulses  that  stand  still  and  ache, 
While  new  emotions,  like  strange  barges,  make 
Along  vein-channels  their  disturbing  course  ; 

Still  as  the  dawn,  and  with  the  dawn’s  swift  force 
Thus  doth  Love  speak. 


10 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


How  does  Love  speak  ? 

In  the  avoidance  of  that  which  we  seek — 

The  sudden  silence  and  reserve  when  near — 

The  eye  that  glistens  with  an  unshed  tear — 

The  joy  that  seems  the  counterpart  of  fear, 

As  the  alarmed  heart  leaps  in  the  breast, 

And  knows,  and  names,  and  greets  its  godlike  guest — 
Thus  doth  Love  speak. 

How  does  Love  speak  ? 

In  the  proud  spirit  suddenly  grown  meek — 

The  haughty  heart  grown  humble  ;  in  the  tender 
And  unnamed  light  that  floods  the  world  with  splendor 
In  the  resemblance  which  the  fond  eyes  trace 
In  all  fair  things  to  one  beloved  face  ; 

In  the  shy  touch  of  hands  that  thrill  and  tremble  ; 

In  looks  and  lips  that  can  no  more  dissemble — 

Thus  doth  Love  speak. 

How  does  Love  speak  ? 

In  the  wild  words  that  uttered  seem  so  weak 


LOVE'S  LANGUAGE. 


11 


They  shrink  ashamed  to  silence  ;  in  the  fire 
Glance  strikes  with  glance,  swift  flashing  high  and 
higher, 

Like  lightnings  that  precede  the  mighty  storm ; 

In  the  deep,  soulful  stillness  ;  in  the  warm, 
Impassioned  tide  that  sweeps  through  throbbing  veins, 
Between  the  shores  of  keen  delights  and  pains  ; 

In  the  embrace  where  madness  melts  in  bliss, 

And  in  the  convulsive  rapture  of  a  kiss — 

Thus  doth  Love  speak. 


12 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


IMPATIENCE. 

How  can  I  wait  until  you  come  to  me  ? 

The  once  fleet  mornings  linger  by  the  way  ; 
Their  sunny  smiles  touched  with  malicious  glee 
At  my  unrest,  they  seem  to  pause,  and  play 
Like  truant  children,  while  I  sigh  and  say, 
How  can  I  wait  ? 

How  can  I  wait  ?  Of  old,  the  rapid  hours 
Refused  to  pause  or  loiter  with  me  long  ; 

But  now  they  idly  fill  their  hands  with  flowers, 
And  make  no  haste,  but  slowly  stroll  among 
The  summer  blooms,  not  heeding  my  one  song: 
How  can  I  wait  ? 

How  can  I  wait  ?  The  nights  alone  are  kind ; 

They  reach  forth  to  a  future  day,  and  bring 
Sweet  dreams  of  you  to  people  all  my  mind  ; 

And  time  speeds  by  on  light  and  airy  wing. 

I  feast  upon  your  face,  I  no  more  sing, 

How  can  I  wait  ? 


IMP  A  TIENCE. 


13 


How  can  I  wait  ?  The  morning  breaks  the  spell 
A  pitying  night  has  flung  upon  my  soul. 

You  are  not  near  me,  and  I  know  full  well 
My  heart  has  need  of  patience  and  control ; 

Before  we  meet,  hours,  days,  and  weeks  must  roll. 
How  can  I  wait  ? 

How  can  I  wait  ?  Oh,  love,  how  can  I  wait 
Until  the  sunlight  of  your  eyes  shall  shine 
Upon  my  world  that  seems  so  desolate  ? 

Until  your  hand-clasp  warms  my  blood  like  wine  ; 
Until  you  come  again,  oh,  Love  of  mine, 

How  can  I  wait  ? 


14 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


COMMUNISM. 

When  my  blood  flows  calm  as  a  purling  river, 

When  my  heart  is  asleep  and  my  brain  has  sway, 

It  is  then  that  I  vow  we  must  part  forever, 

That  I  will  forget  you,  and  put  you  away 

Out  of  my  life,  as  a  dream  is  banished 

Out  of  the  mind  when  the  dreamer  awakes  ; 

That  I  know  it  will  be  when  the  spell  has  vanished, 
Better  for  both  of  our  sakes. 

When  the  court  of  the  mind  is  ruled  by  Reason, 

I  know  it  is  wiser  for  us  to  part ; 

But  Love  is  a  spy  who  is  plotting  treason, 

In  league  with  that  warm,  red  rebel,  the  Heart. 

They  whisper  to  me  that  the  King  is  cruel, 

That  his  reign  is  wicked,  his  law  a  sin, 

And  every  word  they  utter  is  fuel 
To  the  flame  that  smolders  within. 

And  on  nights  like  this,  when  my  blood  runs  riot 
With  the  fever  of  youth  and  its  mad  desires, 


COMMUNISM. 


15 


When  my  brain  in  vain  bids  my  heart  be  quiet, 

When  my  breast  seems  the  centre  of  lava-fires, 

Oh,  then  is  the  time  when  most  I  miss  you, 

And  1  swear  by  the  stars  and  my  soul  and  say 
That  I  will  have  you,  and,  hold  you,  and  kiss  you, 
Though  the  whole  world  stands  in  the  way. 

And  like  Communists,  as  mad,  as  disloyal, 

My  fierce  emotions  roam  out  of  their  lair  ; 

They  hate  King  Reason  for  being  royal  — 

They  would  fire  his  castle,  and  burn  him  there. 

O  love  !  they  would  clasp  you,  and  crush  you,  and  kill 
vou, 

In  the  insurrection  of  uncontrol. 

Across  the  miles,  does  this  wild  war  thrill  you 
That  is  raging  in  my  soul? 


16 


POEMS  CP  PASSION. 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

It  is  a  common  fate  —  a  woman’s  lot  — 

To  waste  on  one  the  riches  of  her  soul, 

Who  takes  the  wealth  she  gives  him,  but  cannot 
Repay  the  interest,  and  much  less  the  whole. 

As  I  look  up  into  your  eyes,  and  wait 

For  some  response  to  my  fond  gaze  and  touch, 

It  seems  to  me  there  is  no  sadder  fate 
Than  to  be  doomed  to  loving  overmuch. 

Are  you  not  kind  ?  Ah,  yes,  so  very  kind — 

So  thoughtful  of  my  comfort,  and  so  true. 

Yes,  yes,  dear  heart  ;  but  I,  not  being  blind, 

Know  that  I  am  not  loved,  as  I  love  you. 

One  tenderer  word,  a  little  longer  kiss, 

Will  fill  my  soul  with  music  and  with  song  ; 

And  if  you  seem  abstracted,  or  I  miss 

The  heart-tone  from  your  voice,  my  world  goes  wrong. 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 


1 


And  oftentimes  you  think  me  childish — weak — 

When  at  some  thoughtless  word  the  tears  will  start 

Vou  cannot  understand  how  aught  you  speak 
Has  power  to  stir  the  depths  of  my  poor  heart. 

I  cannot  help  it,  dear, — I  wish  I  could, 

Or  feign  indifference  where  I  now  adore  ; 

For  if  I  seemed  to  love  you  less  you  would, 

Manlike,  I  have  no  doubt,  love  me  the  more. 

’Tis  a  sad  gift,  that  much  applauded  thing, 

A  constant  heart ;  for  fact  doth  daily  prove 

That  constancy  finds  oft  a  cruel  sting, 

While  fickle  natures  win  the  deeper  love. 


18 


POEMS  OF  PASSION, . 


INDIVIDUALITY. 

O  yes,  I  love  you,  and  with  all  my  heart ;  . 

Just  as  a  weaker  woman  loves  her  own, 

Better  than  I  love  my  beloved  art, 

Which,  till  you  came,  reigned  royally,  alone, 

My  king,  my  master.  Since  I  saw  your  face 
I  have  dethroned  it,  and  you  hold  that  place. 

I  am  as  weak  as  other  women  are — 

Your  frown  can  make  the  whole  world  like  a  tomb. 
Your  smile  shines  brighter  than  the  sun,  by  far ; 
Sometimes  I  think  there  is  not  space  or  room 
In  all  the  earth  for  such  a  love  as  mine, 

And  it  soars  up  to  breathe  in  realms  divine 

I  know  that  your  desertion  or  neglect 

Could  break  my  heart,  as  women’s  hearts  do  break, 

If  my  wan  days  had  nothing  to  expect 

From  your  love’s  splendor,  all  joy  would  forsake 

The  chambers  of  my  soul.  Yes,  this  is  true. 

And  yet,  and  yet — one  thing  I  keep  from  you. 


INDIVID  UALITY. 


19 


There  is  a  subtle  part  of  me,  which  went 
Into  my  long  pursued  and  worshiped  art ; 

Though  your  great  love  fills  me  with  such  content 
No  other  love  finds  room  now,  in  my  heart. 

Yet  that  rare  essence  was  my  art’s  alone. 

Thank  God  you  cannot  grasp  it;  ’tis  mine  own. 

Thank  God,  I  say,  for  while  I  love  you  so, 

With  that  vast  love,  as  passionate  as  tender, 

I  feel  an  exultation  as  I  know 
I  have  not  made  you  a  complete  surrender. 

Here  is  my  body ;  bruise  it,  if  you  will, 

And  break  my  heart ;  I  have  that  so7nething  still. 

You  cannot  grasp  it.  Seize  the  breath  of  morn, 
Or  bind  the  perfume  of  the  rose  as  well. 

God  put  it  in  my  soul  when  I  was  born ; 

It  is  not  mine  to  give  away,  or  sell, 

Or  offer  up  on  any  altar  shrine. 

It  was  my  art’s  ;  and  when  not  art’s,  ’tis  mine. 


20 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


For  love’s  sake,  I  can  put  the  art  away, 

Or  anything  which  stands  ’twixt  me  and  you. 
But  that  strange  essence  God  bestowed,  I  say, 
To  permeate  the  work  He  gave  to  do  : 

And  it  cannot  be  drained,  dissolved,  or  sent 
Through  any  channel,  save  the  one  He  meant. 


21 


FRIENDSHIP  AFTER  LOVE. 

FRIENDSHIP  AFTER  LOVE. 

After  the  fierce  midsummer  all  ablaze 

Has  burned  itself  to  ashes,  and  expires 
In  the  intensity  of  its  own  fires, 

There  come  the  mellow,  mild,  St.  Martin  days 
Crowned  with  the  calm  of  peace,  but  sad  with  haze. 
So  after  Love  has  led  us,  till  he  tires 
Of  his  own  throes,  and  torments,  and  desires, 
Comes  large-eyed  friendship :  with  a  restful  gaze, 

He  beckons  us  to  follow,  and  across 

Cool  verdant  vales  we  wander  free  from  care. 

Is  it  a  touch  of  frost  lies  in  the  air  ? 

Why  are  we  haunted  with  a  sense  of  loss  ? 

We  do  not  wish  the  pain  back,  or  the  heat  ; 

And  yet,  and  yet,  these  days  are  incomplete. 


22 


POEMS  OF  PASSION \ 


QUERIES. 

Well,  how  has  it  been  with  you  since  we  met 
That  last  strange  time  of  a  hundred  times  ? 
When  we  met  to  swear  that  we  could  forget — 

I  your  caresses,  and  you  my  rhymes — 

The  rhyme  of  my  lays  that  rang  like  a  bell, 

And  the  rhyme  of  my  heart  with  yours,  as  well  ? 

How  has  it  been  since  we  drank  that  last  kiss, 
That  was  bitter  with  lees  of  the  wasted  wine  ; 
When  the  tattered  remains  of  a  threadbare  bliss, 
And  the  wornout  shreds  of  a  joy  divine, 

With  a  year’s  best  dreams  and  hopes,  were  cast 
Into  the  ragbag  of  the  Past  ? 

Since  Time,  the  rag-buyer,  hurried  away 
With  a  chuckle  of  glee  at  the  bargain  made, 
Did  you  discover,  like  me,  one  day, 

That  hid  in  the  folds  of  those  garments  frayed 
Were  priceless  jewels  and  diadems — 

The  soul’s  best  treasures,  the  heart’s  best  gems  ? 


QUERIES. 


23 


Have  you,  too,  found  that  you  could  not  supply 
The  place  of  those  jewels  so  rare  and  chaste  ? 
Do  all  that  you  borrow,  or  beg,  or  buy, 

Prove  to  be  nothing  but  skilful  paste  ? 

Have  you  found  pleasure,  as  I  find  art, 

Not  all  sufficient  to  fill  your  heart  ? 

Do  you  sometimes  sigh  for  the  tattered  sheds 
Of  the  old  delight  that  we  cast  away, 

And  find  no  worth  in  the  silken  threads 
Of  newer  fabrics  we  wear  to-day  ? 

Have  you  thought  the  bitter  of  that  last  kiss 
Better  than  sweets  of  a  later  bliss  ? 

What  idle  queries  ! — or  yes  or  no — 

Whatever  your  answer,  I  understand 
That  there  is  no  pathway  by  which  we  can  go 
Back  to  the  dead  past’s  wonderland ; 

And  the  gems  he  purchased  from  me,  and  you, 
There  is  no  rebuying,  from  Time  the  Jew. 


24 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


UPON  THE  SAND. 

All  love  that  has  not  friendship  for  its  base, 

Is  like  a  mansion  built  upon  the  sand. 
Though  brave  its  walls  as  any  in  the  land, 

And  its  tall  turrets  lift  their  heads  in  grace  ; 
Though  skilful  and  accomplished  artists  trace 
Most  beautiful  designs  on  every  hand, 

And  gleaming  statues  in  dim  niches  stand, 

And  fountains  play  in  some  flow’r-hidden  place  : 

Yet,  when  from  the  frowning  east  a  sudden  gust 
Of  adverse  fate  is  blown,  or  sad  rains  fall 
Day  in,  day  out,  against  its  yielding  wall, 

Lo !  the  fair  structure  crumbles  to  the  dust. 

Love,  to  endure  life’s  sorrow  and  earth’s  woe, 
Needs  friendship’s  solid  masonwork  below. 


REUNITED. 


25 


REUNITED. 

Let  us  begin,  dear  love,  where  we  left  off  ; 

Tie  up  the  broken  threads  of  that  old  dream ; 
And  go  on  happy  as  before  ;  and  seem 
Lovers  again,  though  all  the  world  may  scoff. 

Let  us  forget  the  graves,  which  lie  between 
Our  parting  and  our  meeting,  and  the  tears 
That  rusted  out  the  goldwork  of  the  years  ; 
The  frosts  that  fell  upon  our  gardens  green. 

Let  us  forget  the  cold  malicious  fate 

Who  made  our  loving  hearts  her  idle  toys, 
And  once  more  revel  in  the  old  sweet  joys 
Of  happy  love.  Nay,  it  is  not  too  late  ! 

Forget  the  deep-ploughed  furrows  in  my  brow ; 
Forget  the  silver  gleaming  in  my  hair; 

Look  only  in  my  eyes  !  Oh  !  darling,  there 
The  old  love  shone  no  warmer  then  than  now. 


26 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


Down  in  the  tender  deeps  of  thy  dear  eyes, 

I  find  the  lost  sweet  memory  of  my  youth, 
Bright  with  the  holy  radiance  of  thy  truth, 
And  hallowed  with  the  blue  of  summer  skies. 

Tie  up  the  broken  threads,  and  let  us  go, 
Like  reunited  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

Back,  and  yet  onward,  to  the  sunny  land, 
Of  our  To  Be,  which  was  our  Long  Ago. 


WHA  T  SHALL  WE  DO  ? 


27 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO? 

Here  now,  forevermore,  our  lives  must  part. 

My  path  leads  there,  and  yours  another  way. 
What  shall  we  do  with  this  fond  love,  dear  heart  ? 
It  grows  a  heavier  burden  day  by  day. 

Hide  it  ?  In  all  earth’s  caverns,  void  and  vast, 
There  is  not  room  enough  to  hide  it,  dear ; 

Not  even  the  mighty  storehouse  of  the  past 
Could  cover  it,  from  our  own  eyes,  I  fear. 

Drown  it  ?  Why,  were  the  contents  of  each  ocean 
Merged  into  one  great  sea,  too  shallow  then 
Would  be  its  waters,  to  sink  this  emotion 
So  deep  it  could  not  rise  to  life  again. 

Burn  it  ?  In  all  the  furnace  flames  below, 

It  would  not  in  a  thousand  years  expire. 

Nay !  it  would  thrive,  exult,  expand  and  grow, 

For  from  its  very  birth  it  fed  on  fire. 


28 


POEMS  OP  PASSION . 


Starve  it?  Yes,  yes,  that  is  the  only  way. 

Give  it  no  food,  of  glance,  or  word,  or  sigh„ 
No  memories,  even,  of  any  bygone  day ; 

No  crumbs  of  vain  regrets — so  let  it  die. 


“  THE  BEAUTIFUL  BLUE  DANUBE .” 


29 


“THE  BEAUTIFUL  BLUE  DANUBE.” 

They  drift  down  the  hall  together  ; 

He  smiles  in  her  lifted  eyes. 

Like  waves  of  that  mighty  river, 

The  strains  of  the  “  Danube  ”  rise. 

They  float  on  its  rhythmic  measure, 

Like  leaves  on  a  summer-stream  ; 

And  here,  in  this  scene  of  pleasure, 

I  bury  my  sweet,  dead  dream. 

• 

Through  the  cloud  of  her  dusky  tresses, 
Like  a  star,  shines  out  her  face  ; 

And  the  form  his  strong  arm  presses 
Is  sylph-like  in  its  grace. 

As  a  leaf  on  the  bounding  river 
Is  lost  in  the  seething  sea, 

I  know  that  forever  and  ever 
My  dream  is  lost  to  me, 


30 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


And  still  the  viols  are  playing 
That  grand  old  wordless  rhyme ; 

And  still  those  two  are  swaying 
In  perfect  tune  and  time. 

If  the  great  bassoons  that  mutter, 

If  the  clarinets  that  blow, 

Were  given  a  voice  to  utter 
The  secret  things  they  know, 

Would  the  lists  of  the  slain  who  slumber 
On  the  Danube’s  battle-plains 

The  unknown  hosts  outnumber 

Who  die  ’neath  the  “  Danube’s  ”  strains  ? 

Those  fall  where  cannons  rattle, 

’  Mid  the  rain  of  shot  and  shell ; 

But  these,  in  a  fiercer  battle, 

Find  death  in  the  music’s  swell. 

With  the  river’s  roar  of  passion 
Is  blended  the  dying  groan; 

But  here,  in  the  halls  of  fashion, 

Hearts  break,  and  make  no  moan. 


•  I  HE  BEAUTIFUL  BLUE  DANUBE 


31 


A.nd  the  music,  swelling  and  sweeping, 
Like  the  river,  knows  it  all  ; 

But  none  are  counting  or  keeping 
The  lists  of  these  who  fall. 


i 


32 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


ANSWERED. 

Good-by — yes,  I  am  going. 

Sudden  ?  Well  you  are  right. 

But  a  startling  truth  came  home  to  me 
With  sudden  force  last  night. 

What  is  it  ?  shall  I  tell  you — 

Nay,  that  is  why  I  go. 

I  am  running  away  from  the  battlefield, 
Turning  my  back  on  the  foe. 

Riddles  ?  You  think  me  cruel ! 

Have  you  not  been  most  kind  ? 

Why,  when  you  question  me  like  that 
What  answer  can  I  find  ? 

You  fear  you  failed  to  amuse  me, 

Your  husband’s  friend  and  guest, 
Whom  he  bade  you  entertain  and  please 
Well,  you  have  done  your  best. 


ANSWERED. 


33 


Then  why  am  I  going ! 

A  friend  of  mine  abroad, 

Whose  theories  I  have  been  acting  upon, 
Has  proven  himself  a  fraud. 

You  have  heard  me  quote  from  Plato 
A  thousand  times  no  doubt ; 

Well,  I  have  discovered  he  did  not  know 
What  he  was  talking  about. 

You  think  I  am  speaking  strangely  ? 

You  cannot  understand  ? 

Well,  let  me  look  down  into  your  eyes, 
And  let  me  take  your  hand. 

I  am  running  away  from  danger — 

I  am  flying  before  I  fall  ; 

I  am  going  because  with  heart  and  soul 
I  love  you — that  is  all. 

There,  now,  you  are  white  with  anger. 

I  knew  it  would  be  so. 

You  should  not  question  a  man  too  close 
When  he  tells  you  he  must  go. 


34 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


THROUGH  THE  VALLEY. 

[after  JAMES  THOMSON.] 

As  I  came  through  the  Valley  of  Despair, 

As  I  came  through  the  valley,  on  my  sight, 
More  awful  than  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
Shone  glimpses  of  a  Past  that  had  been  fair, 
And  memories  of  eyes  that  used  to  smile, 
And  wafts  of  perfume  from  a  vanished  isle, 
As  I  came  through  the  valley. 

As  I  came  through  the  valley  I  could  see, 

As  I  came  through  the  valley,  fair  and  far, 
As  drowning  men  look  up  and  see  a  star, 
The  fading  shore  of  my  lost  Used-to-be  ; 

And  like  an  arrow  in  my  heart  I  heard 
The  last  sad  notes  of  Hope’s  expiring  bird, 
As  I  came  through  the  valley. 


THROUGH  THE  VALLEY \ 


35 


As  I  came  through  the  valley  desolate, 

As  I  came  through  the  valley,  like  a  beam 
Of  lurid  lightning  I  beheld  a  gleam 
Of  Love’s  great  eyes  that  now  were  full  of  hate. 
Dear  God  !  dear  God  !  I  could  bear  all  but  that  \ 
But  I  fell  down  soul-stricken,  dead,  thereat, 

As  I  came  through  the  valley. 


36 


POEMS  OF  PASSION . 


BUT  ONE. 

The  year  has  but  one  June,  dear  friend, 

The  year  has  but  one  June  ; 

And  when  that  perfect  month  doth  end, 
The  robin’s  song,  though  loud,  though  long, 
Seems  never  quite  in  tune. 

The  rose,  though  still  its  blushing  face 
By  bee  and  bird  is  seen, 

May  yet  have  lost  that  subtle  grace — 

That  nameless  spell  the  winds  know  well — 

Which  makes  its  gardens  queen. 

Life’s  perfect  June,  love’s  red,  red  rose, 
Have  burned  and  bloomed  for  me. 
Though  still  youth’s  summer  sunlight  glows ; 
Though  thou  art  kind,  dear  friend,  I  find 
I  have  no  heart  for  thee. 


GUILO . 


37 


GUILO. 

Yes,  yes  !  I  love  thee,  Guilo  ;  thee  alone. 

Why  dost  thou  sigh,  and  wear  that  face  of  sorrow? 
The  sunshine  is  today’s,  although  it  shone 
On  yesterday,  and  may  shine  on  tomorrow, 

I  love  but  thee,  my  Guilo  !  be  content, 

The  greediest  heart  can  claim  but  present  pleasure. 
The  future  is  thy  God’s.  The  past  is  spent. 

Today  is  thine  ;  clasp  close  the  precious  treasure. 

See  how  I  love  thee,  Guilo  !  Lips  and  eyes 
Could  never  under  thy  fond  gaze  dissemble. 

I  could  not  feign  these  passion-laden  sighs, 

Deceiving  thee,  my  pulses  would  not  tremble. 

“  So  I  loved  Romney.”  Hush,  thou  foolish  one — 

I  should  forget  him  wholly,  wouldst  thou  let  me ; 

Or  but  remember  that  his  day  was  done 

From  that  most  supreme  hour  when  first  I  met  thee. 


38 


POEMS  OF  PASS  ION. 

9 


“  And  Paul  ?  ”  Well,  what  of  Paul  ?  Paul  had  blue 

eyes, 

And  Romney  gray,  and  thine  are  darkly  tender ! 
One  finds  fresh  feelings  under  change  of  skies — 

A  new  horizon  brings  a  newer  splendor. 

As  I  love  thee,  I  never  loved  before ; 

Believe  me,  Guilo,  for  I  speak  most  truly. 

What  though  to  Romney  and  to  Paul  I  swore 

The  selfsame  words  ;  my  heart  now  worships  newl) , 

We  never  feel  the  same  emotion  twice  : 

No  two  ships  ever  ploughed  the  selfsame  billow. 
The  waters  change,  with  every  fall  and  rise  ; 

So,  Guilo,  go  contented  to  thy  pillow. 


THE  DUET. 


39 


THE  DUET. 

I  was  smoking  a  cigarette  ; 

Maud,  my  wife,  and  the  tenor  Me  Key, 

Were  singing  together  a  blithe  duet, 

And  days  it  were  better  I  should  forget 
Came  suddenly  back  to  me. 

Days  when  life  seemed  a  gay  masque  ball, 

And  to  love  and  be  loved  was  the  sum  of  it  alb 

As  they  sang  together,  the  whole  scene  fled, 

The  room’s  rich  hangings,  the  sweet  home  air, 
Stately  Maud,  with  her  proud  blonde  head, 

And  I  seemed  to  see  in  her  place  instead 
A  wealth  of  blue-black  hair, 

And  a  face,  ah  !  your  face, — yours,  Lisette, 

A  face  it  were  wiser  1  should  forget. 

We  were  back — well,  no  matter  when  or  where, 
But  you  remember,  I  know,  Lisette, 


40 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


I  saw  you,  dainty,  and  debonnaire, 

With  the  very  same  look  that  you  used  to  wear 
In  the  days  I  should  forget. 

And  your  lips,  as  red,  as  the  vintage  we  quaffed, 
Were  pearl-edged  bumpers  of  wine  when  you  laughed. 

Two  small  slippers  with  big  rosettes, 

Peeped  out  under  your  kilt-skirt  there, 

While  we  sat  smoking  our  cigarettes 

(Oh,  I  shall  be  dust  when  my  heart  forgets !) 

And  singing  that  selfsame  air ; 

And  between  the  verses  for  interlude, 

I  kissed  your  throat,  and  your  shoulders  nude. 

You  were  so  full  of  a  subtle  fire, 

You  were  so  warm  and  so  sweet,  Lisette  ; 

You  were  everything  men  admire, 

And  there  were  no  fetters  to  make  us  tire, 

For  you  were — a  pretty  grisette. 

But  you  loved,  as  only  such  natures  can, 

With  a  love  that  makes  heaven  or  hell  for  a  man. 


THE  DUET. 


41 


They  have  ceased  singing  that  old  duet, 

Stately  Maud  and  the  tenor  McKey. 

“  You  are  burning  your  coat  with  your  cigarette, 
And  qif  avez  7>ous,  dearest,  your  lids  are  wet/5 
Maud  says,  as  she  leans  o’er  me, 

And  I  smile,  and  lie  to  her,  husband-wise, 

<c  Oh,  it  is  nothing  but  smoke  in  my  eyes.” 


42 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


LITTLE  QUEEN. 

Do  you  remember  the  name  I  wore — 

The  old  pet-name  of  Little  Queen — 

In  the  dear,  dead  days,  that  are  no  more, 

The  happiest  days  of  our  lives,  I  ween  ? 

For  we  loved  with  that  passionate  love  of  youth 
That  blesses  but  once  with  its  perfect  bliss, — 

A  love  that,  in  spite  of  its  trust  and  truth, 
Seems  never  to  thrive,  in  a  world  like  this. 


I  lived  for  you,  and  you  lived  for  me  ;  • 

All  was  centered  in  “  Little  Queen  ” ; 

And  never  a  thought  in  our  hearts  had  we 
* 

That  strife  or  trouble  could  come  between. 
What  utter  sinking  of  self  it  was  ! 

How  little  we  cared  for  the  world  of  men! 

For  love’s  fair  kingdom,  and  love’s  sweet  laws, 
Were  all  of  the  world  and  life  to  us  then. 


LITTLE  QUEEN. 


4o 


But  a  love  like  ours  was  a  challenge  to  fate  -, 

She  rang  down  the  curtain  and  shifted  the  scene ; 
Yet  sometimes  now,  when  the  day  grows  late, 

I  can  hear  you  calling  for  Little  Queen ; 

For  a  happy  home  and  a  busy  life 
Can  never  wholly  crowd  out  our  past ; 

In  the  twilight  pauses  that  come  from  strife, 

You  will  think  of  me  while  life  shall  last. 

And  however  sweet  the  voice  of  fame 
May  sing  to  me  of  a  great  world’s  praise, 

I  shall  long  sometimes  for  the  old  pet-name 
That  you  gave  to  me  in  the  dear,  dead  days  ; 

And  nothing  the  angel  band  can  say, 

When  I  reach  the  shores  of  the  great  Unseen^ 
Can  please  me  so  much  as  on  that  day 
To  hear  your  greeting  of  w  Little  Queen05* 


44 


POEMS  OF  PASS/ON. 


WHEREFORE. 

Wherefore  in  dreams  are  sorrows  borne  anew, 

A  healed  wound  opened,  or  the  past  revived  ? 
Last  night  in  my  deep  sleep  I  dreamed  of  you — 
Again  the  old  love  woke  in  me,  and  thrived 
On  looks  of  fire,  and  kisses,  and  sweet  words 
Like  silver  waters  purling  in  a  stream, 

Or  like  the  amorous  melodies  of  birds : 

A  dream — a  dream. 


Again  upon  the  glory  of  the  scene 

There  settled  that  dread  shadow  of  the  cross 
That,  when  hearts  love  too  well,  falls  in  between — 
That  warns  them  of  impending  wo  and  loss. 
Again  I  saw  you  drifting  from  my  life, 

As  barques  are  rudely  parted  in  a  stream  ; 

Again  my  heart  was  torn  with  awful  strife  : 

A  dream — a  dream. 


WHEREFORE. 


45 


Again  the  deep  night  settled  on  me  there, 

Alone  I  groped,  and  heard  strange  waters  roll. 
Lost  in  that  blackness  of  supreme  despair 
That  comes  but  once  to  any  living  soul. 

Alone,  afraid,  I  called  your  name  aloud — 

Mine  eyes,  unveiled,  beheld  white  stars  agleam, 
And  lo  !  awake,  I  cried  “  Thank  God,  thank  God, 
A  dream — a  dream  1  ” 


46 


FOEMS  OF  FASHION, 


DELILAH. 

In  the  midnight  of  darkness  and  terror, 
When  I  would  grope  nearer  to  God, 

With  my  back  to  a  record  of  error 
And  the  highway  of  sin  I  have  trod, 

There  come  to  me  shapes  I  would  banish _ 

The  shapes  of  the  deeds  I  have  done  ; 

And  I  pray  and  I  plead  till  they  vanish _ 

All  vanish  and  leave  me,  save  one. 

That  one,  with  a  smile  like  the  splendor 
Of  the  sun  in  the  middle-day  skies — 

That  one,  with  a  spell  that  is  tender — 

That  one  with  a  dream  in  her  eyes — 

Cometh  close,  in  her  rare  Southern  beauty, 
Her  languor,  her  indolent  grace  ; 

And  my  soul  turns  its  back  on  its  duty, 

To  live  in  the  light  of  her  face. 


DELILAH. 


47 


She  touches  my  cheek,  and  I  quiver — 

I  tremble  with  exquisite  pains  ; 

She  sighs — like  an  overcharged  river 
My  blood  rushes  on  through  my  veins ; 
She  smiles — and  in  mad-tiger  fashion, 

As  a  she-tiger  fondles  her  own, 

I  clasp  her  with  fierceness  and  passion, 
And  kiss  her  with  shudder  and  groan. 

Once  more,  in  our  love’s  sweet  beginning, 
I  put  away  God  and  the  World  ; 

Once  more,  in  the  joys  of  our  sinnings, 
Are  the  hopes  of  eternity  hurled. 

There  is  nothing  my  soul  lacks  or  misses 
As  I  clasp  the  dream-shape  to  my  breast ; 
In  the  passion  and  pain  of  her  kisses 
Life  blooms  to  its  richest  and  best. 

O  ghost  of  dead  sin  unrelenting, 

Go  back  to  the  dust,  and  the  sod  ! 

Too  dear  and  too  sweet  for  repenting, 

Ye  stand  between  me  and  my  God. 


48 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


If  I,  by  the  Throne,  should  behold  you, 
Smiling  up  with  those  eyes  loved  so  well, 
Close,  close  in  my  arms  I  would  fold  you, 
And  drop  with  you  down  to  sweet  Hell ! 


LOVE  SONG. 


49 


LOVE  SONG. 

Once  in  the  world’s  first  prime, 
When  nothing  lived  or  stirred  ; 
Nothing  but  new-born  Time, 

Nor  was  there  even  a  bird — 
The  Silence  spoke  to  a  Star ; 

But  I  do  not  dare  repeat 
What  it  said  to  its  love  afar, 

It  was  too  sweet,  too  sweet. 


But  there,  in  the  fair  world’s  youth, 
Ere  sorrow  had  drawn  breath 
When  nothing  was  known  but  Truth, 
Nor  was  there  even  death, 

The  Star  to  Silence  was  wed, 

And  the  Sun  was  priest  that  day, 
And  they  made  their  bridal-bed 
High  in  the  Milky  Way. 


50 


FOE  MS  OF  PASSION, 


For  the  great  white  star  had  heard 
Her  silent  lover’s  speech  ; 

It  needed  no  passionate  word 
To  pledge  them  each  to  each. 

O  lady  fair  and  far 

Hear,  oh,  hear,  and  apply  ! 

Thou  the  beautiful  Star — 

The  voiceless  Silence,  I. 


TIME  AND  LOVE. 


51 


TIME  AND  LOVE. 


Time  flies.  The  swift  hours  hurry  by 
And  speed  us  on  to  untried  ways ; 

New  seasons  ripen,  perish,  die, 

And  yet  love  stays. 

The  old,  old  love — like  sweet  at  first, 

At  last  like  bitter  Wine — 

I  know  not  if  it  blest  or  curst, 

Thy  life  and  mine. 

Time  flies.  In  vain  our  prayers,  our  tears 
We  cannot  tempt  him  to  delays  ; 

Down  to  the  past  he  bears  the  years, 

And  yet  love  stays. 

Through  changing  task  and  varying  dream 
We  hear  the  same  refrain, 

As  one  can  hear  a  plaintive  theme 
Run  through  each  strain. 


52 


FOEMS  OF  PASSION . 


Time  flies.  He  steals  our  pulsing  youth, 
He  robs  us  of  our  care-free  days, 

He  takes  away  our  trust  and  truth, 

And  yet  love  stays. 

O  Time  !  take  love  !  When  love  is  vain, 
When  all  its  best  joys  die — 

When  only  its  regrets  remain — 

Let  love,  too,  fly0 


CHANGE. 


63 


CHANGE. 

Changed  ?  Yes,  I  will  confess  it — I  have  changed. 
I  do  not  love  you  in  the  old  fond  way. 

I  am  your  friend  still — time  has  not  estranged 
One  kindly  feeling  of  that  vanished  day. 

But  the  bright  glamour  which  made  life  a  dream, 
The  rapture  of  that  time,  its  sweet  content, 

Like  visions  of  a  sleeper's  brain  they  seem — 

And  yet  I  cannot  tell  you  how  they  went. 

Why  do  you  gaze  with  such  accusing  eyes 
Upon  me,  dear  ?  Is  it  so  very  strange 
That  hearts,  like  all  things  underneath  God’s  skies, 
Should  sometimes  feel  the  influence  of  change  ? 

The  birds,  the  flowers,  the  foliage  of  the  trees, 

The  stars  which  seem  so  fixed,  and  so  sublime, 
Vast  continents,  and  the  eternal  seas, — 

All  these  do  change,  with  ever-changing  time. 


54 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


The  face  our  mirror  shows  us  year  on  year 
Is  not  the  same  ;  our  dearest  aim,  or  need, 
Our  lightest  thought,  or  feeling,  hope,  or  fear, 
All,  all  the  law  of  alternation  heed. 

How  can  we  ask  the  human  heart  to  stay, 
Content  with  fancies  of  Youth’s  earliest  hours  ? 
The  year  outgrows  the  violets  of  May, 
Although,  maybe,  there  are  no  fairer  flowers. 

And  life  may  hold  no  sweeter  love  than  this, 
Which  lies  so  cold,  so  voiceless,  and  so  dumb. 
And  will  I  miss  it,  dear  ?  Why,  yes,  we  miss 
The  violets  always — till  the  roses  come  ! 


DESOL  A  TION. 


55 


DESOLATION. 

1  think  that  the  bitterest  sorrow  or  pain 
Of  love  unrequited,  or«*cold  death’s  wo, 

Is  sweet,  compared  to  that  hour  when  we  know 
That  some  grand  passion  is  on  the  wane. 

When  we  see  that  the  glory,  and  glow,  and  grace 

Which  lent  a  splendor  to  night  and  day, 

« 

Are  surely  fading,  and  showing  the  gray 
And  dull  groundwork  of  the  commonplace. 

When  fond  expressions  on  dull  ears  fall, 

When  the  hands  clasp  calmly  without  one  thrill, 
When  we  cannot  muster  by  force  of  will 
The  old  emotions  that  came  at  call. 

When  the  dream  has  vanished  we  fain  would  keep, 
When  the  heart,  like  a  watch,  runs  out  of  gear, 
And  all  the  savor  goes  out  of  the  year, 

Oh,  then  is  the  time  —  if  we  could  —  to  weep! 


56 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


But  no  tears  soften  this  dull,  pale  wo, 

We  must  sit  and  face  it  with  dry,  sad  eyes. 

If  we  seek  to  hold  it,  the  swifter  joy  flies — 
We  can  only  be  passive,  and  let  it  go. 


IS  AURA. 


57 


ISAURA. 

Dost  thou  not  tire,  Isaura,  of  this  play? 

What  play  ?  Why,  this  old  play  of  winning  hearts ! 
Nay,  now,  lift  not  thine  eyes  in  that  feigned  way  ; 
’Tis  all  in  vain — I  know  thee,  and  thine  arts. 

Let  us  be  frank,  Isaura.  I  have  made 

A  study  of  thee  ;  and  while  I  admire 

The  practiced  skill  with  which  thy  plans  are  laid, 

I  can  but  wonder  if  thou  dost  not  tire. 

Why,  I  tire  even  of  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  ! 

When  overlong  the  season  runs,  I  find 

Those  master-scenes  of  passion,  blood,  and  death, 

After  a  time,  do  pall  upon  my  mind. 

Dost  thou  not  tire  of  lifting  up  thine  eyes 
To  read  the  story  thou  hast  read  so  oft — 

Of  ardent  glances,  and  deep  quivering  sighs, 

Of  haughty  faces  suddenly  grown  soft  ? 


58 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


Is  it  not  stale,  oh,  very  stale,  to  thee, 

The  scene  that  follows  ?  Hearts  are  much  the  same  ; 
The  loves  of  men  but  vary  in  degree — 

They  find  no  new  expressions  for  the  flame. 

Thou  must  know  all  they  utter  ere  they  speak, 

As  I  know  Hamlet’s  part,  whoever  plays. 

Oh,  does  it  not  seem  sometimes  poor  and  weak  ? 

I  think  thou  must  grow  weary  of  their  ways. 

I  pity  thee,  Isaura  !  I  would  be 

The  humblest  maiden  with  her  dream  untold, 

Rather  than  live  a  Queen  of  Hearts,  like  thee, 

i 

And  find  life’s  rarest  treasures  stale  and  old. 

I  pity  thee  ;  for  now,  let  come  what  may, 

Fame,  glory,  riches,  yet  life  will  lack  all. 

Wherewith  can  salt  be  salted  ?  And  what  way. 

Can  life  be  seasoned  after  love  doth  pall  ? 


NOT  QUITE  THE  SAME. 


59 


NOT  QUITE  THE  SAME. 

Not  quite  the  same  the  springtime  seems  to  me, 

Since  that  sad  season  when  in  separate  ways 
Our  paths  diverged.  There  are  no  more  such  days 
As  dawned  for  us  in  that  lost  time  when  we 
Dwelt  in  the  realm  of  dreams,  illusive  dreams  ; 

Spring  may  be  just  as  fair  now,  but  it  seems 

Not  quite  the  same. 

Not  quite  the  same  in  life,  since  we  two  parted, 
Knowing  it  best  to  go  our  ways  alone. 

Fair  measures  of  success  we  both  have  known, 

And  pleasant  hours ;  and  yet  something  departed 
Which  gold,  nor  fame,  nor  anything  we  win, 

Can  all  replace.  And  either  life  has  been 

Not  quite  the  same. 

Love  is  not  quite  the  same,  although  each  heart 
Has  formed  new  ties,  that  are  both  sweet  and  true  ; 
But  that  wild  rapture,  which  of  old  we  knew, 


60 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


Seems  to  have  been  a  something  set  apart 
With  that  lost  dream.  There  is  no  passion,  now, 
Mixed  with  this  later  love,  which  seems,  somehow, 

Not  quite  the  same. 

Not  quite  the  same  am  I.  My  inner  being 
Reasons  and  knows  that  all  is  for  the  best. 

Yet  vague  regrets  stir  always  in  my  breast, 

As  my  soul’s  eyes  turn  sadly  backward,  seeing 
The  vanished  self,  that  ever  more  must  be 
This  side  of  what  we  call  eternity, 

Not  quite  the  same. 


FROM  THE  GRAVE. 


61 


FROM  THE  GRAVE. 

When  the  first  sere  leaves  of  the  year  were  falling, 
I  heard,  with  a  heart  that  was  strangely  thrilled, 
Out  of  the  grave  of  a  dead  Past  calling, 

A  voice  I  fancied  forever  stilled. 

All  through  winter,  and  spring,  and  summer, 
Silence  hung  over  that  grave  like  a  pall ; 

But,  borne  on  the  breath  of  the  last  sad  comer, 

I  listen  again  to  the  old-time  call. 

It  is  only  a  love  of  a  bygone  season, 

A  senseless  folly  that  mocked  at  me, 

A  reckless  passion  that  lacked  all  reason  ; 

So  I  killed  it,  and  hid  it  where  none  could  see. 

I  smothered  it  first  to  stop  its  crying, 

Then  stabbed  it  through  with  a  good  sharp  blade  ; 
And  cold  and  pallid  I  saw  it  lying, 

And  deep — ah  !  deep  was  the  grave  I  made. 


62 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. . 


But  now  I  know  that  there  is  no  killing 
A  thing  like  Love,  for  it  laughs  at  Death. 

There  is  no  hushing,  there  is  no  stilling 
That  which  is  part  of  your  life  and  breath. 

You  may  bury  it  deep,  and  leave  behind  you 
The  land,  the  people  that  knew  your  slain  ; 

It  will  push  the  sods  from  its  grave,  and  find  you 
On  wastes  of  water  or  desert  plain. 

You  may  hear  but  tongues  of  a  foreign  people, 

You  may  list  to  sounds  that  are  strange  and  new; 
But,  clear  as  a  silver  bell  in  a  steeple, 

That  voice  from  the  grave  shall  call  to  you. 

You  may  rouse  your  pride,  you  may  use  your  reason 
And  seem  for  a  space  to  slay  Love  so ; 

But,  all  in  its  own  good  time  and  season, 

It  will  rise  and  follow  wherever  you  go. 

You  shall  sit  sometimes,  when  the  leaves  are  falling 
Alone  with  your  heart,  as  I  sit  to  day, 

And  hear  that  voice  from  your  dead  Past  calling 
Out  of  the  graves  that  you  hid  away. 


IV A  L  TZ-Q  UADRILLE. 


60 


A  WALTZ-QUADRILLE. 

The  band  was  playing  a  waltz-quadrille, 

I  felt  as  light  as  a  wind-blown  feather, 

As  we  floated  away,  at  the  caller’s  will, 

Through  the  intricate,  mazy  dance  together. 

Like  mimic  armies  our  lines  were  meeting, 
Slowly  advancing,  and  then  retreating, 

All  decked  in  their  bright  array  ; 

And  back  and  forth  to  the  music’s  rhyme 
We  moved  together,  and  all  the  time 
I  knew  you  were  going  away. 

The  fold  of  your  strong  arm  sent  a  thrill 
From  heart  to  brain  as  we  gently  glided 
Like  leaves  on  the  wave  of  that  waltz  quadrille; 
Parted,  met,  and  again  divided — 

You  drifting  one  way,  and  I  another, 

Then  suddenly  turning  and  facing  each  other, 
Then  off  in  the  blithe  chasse, 


64 


FOE  MS  OF  PASSION. 


Then  airily  back  to  our  places  swaying, 

While  every  beat  of  the  music  seemed  saying 

That  you  were  going  away. 

I  said  to  my  heart,  “  Let  us  take  our  fill 
Of  mirth,  and  music,  and  love,  and  laughter; 

For  it  all  must  end  with  this  waltz-quadrille, 

And  life  will  be  never  the  same  life  after. 

O,  that  the  caller  might  go  on  calling, 

O,  that  the  music  might  go  on  falling 

Like  a  shower  of  silver  spray, 

While  we  whirled  on  to  the  vast  Forever, 

Where  no  hearts  break,  and  no  ties  sever, 

And  no  one  goes  away.” 

A  clamor,  a  crash,  and  the  band  was  still, 

’Twas  the  end  of  the  dream,  and  the  end  of  the  measure 
The  last  low  notes  of  that  waltz  quadrille 
Seemed  like  a  dirge  o’er  the  death  of  Pleasure. 

You  said  good-night,  and  the  spell  was  over — 

Too  warm  for  a  friend,  and  too  cold  for  a  lover — 


WAL  TZ-QUADRILLE . 


65 


There  was  nothing  else  to  say ; 

Eut  the  lights  looked  dim,  and  the  dancers  weary, 
And  the  music  was  sad,  and  the  hall  was  dreary, 
After  you  went  away. 


66 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


BEPPO. 

Why  art  thou  sad,  my  Beppo  ?  But  last  eve, 

Here  at  my  feet,  thy  dear  head  on  my  breast, 

I  heard  thee  say  thy  heart  would  no  more  grieve 
Or  feel  the  olden  ennui,  and  unrest. 

What  troubles  thee  ?  Am  I  not  all  thine  own — 

I,  so  long  sought,  so  sighed  for  and  so  dear? 

And  do  I  not  live  but  for  thee  alone  ? 

“  Thou  hast  seen  Lippo ,  whom  J  loved  last  year  /  ” 

* 

Well,  what  of  that  ?  Last  year  is  naught  to  me — 
JTis  swallowed  in  the  ocean  of  the  past. 

Art  thou  not  glad  ’tvvas  Lippo,  and  not  thee, 
Whose  brief  bright  day  in  that  great  gulf  was  cast. 

Thy  day  is  all  before  thee.  Let  no  cloud, 

Here,  in  the  very  morn  of  our  delight, 

Drift  up  from  distant  foreign  skies,  to  shroud, 

Our  sun  of  love  whose  radiance  is  so  bright. 


BEPPO. 


67 


“Thou  art  not  first  ?  ”  Nay,  and  he  who  would  be 
Defeats  his  own  heart’s  dearest  purpose  then. 

No  truer  truth  was  ever  told  to  thee — 

IVho  has  loved  most ,  he  best  can  love  again. 

If  Lippo  (and  not  he  alone)  has  taught 

* 

The  arts  that  please  thee,  wherefore  art  thou  sad  ? 
Since  all  my  vast  love-lore  to  thee  is  brought, 

Look  up  and  smile,  my  Beppo,  and  be  glad. 


68 


POEMS  OF  PASSION i 


TIRED. 

I  am  tired  tonight,  and  something, 

The  wind  maybe,  or  the  rain, 

Or  the  cry  of  a  bird  in  the  copse  outside, 

Has  brought  back  the  past,  and  its  pain. 

And  I  feel,  as  I  sit  here  thinking, 

That  the  hand  of  a  dead  old  June 

Has  reached  out  hold  of  my  heart’s  loose  strings, 
And  is  drawing  them  up  in  tune. 

I  am  tired  tonight,  and  I  miss  you, 

And  long  for  you,  love,  through  tears  ; 

And  it  seems  but  today  that  I  saw  you  go — 

You,  who  have  been  gone  for  years. 

And  I  seem  to  be  newly  lonely — 

I,  who  am  so  much  alone  ; 

And  the  strings  of  my  heart  are  well  in  tune, 

But  they  have  not  the  same  old  tone. 


TIRED. 


69 


I  am  tired ;  and  that  old  sorrow 
Sweeps  down  the  bed  of  my  soul, 

As  a  turbulent  river  might  suddenly  break 
Away  from  a  dam’s  control. 

It  beareth  a  wreck  on  its  bosom, 

A  wreck  with  a  snow-white  sail, 

And  the  hand  on  my  heart-strings  thrums  away, 
But  they  only  respond  with  a  wail. 


70 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


THE  SPEECH  OF  SILENCE. 

The  solemn  Sea  of  Silence  lies  between  us; 

I  know  thou  livest,  and  thou  lovest  me  ; 

And  yet  I  wish  some  white  ship  would  come  sail 
Across  the  ocean,  bearing  word  from  thee. 

The  dead-calm  awes  me  with  its  awful  stillness. 

No  anxious  doubts  or  fears  disturb  my  breast ; 
I  only  ask  some  little  wave  of  language, 

To  stir  this  vast  infinitude  of  rest. 

I  am  oppressed  with  this  great  sense  of  loving ; 

So  much  I  give,  so  much  receive  from  thee, 
Like  subtle  incense,  rising  from  a  censer, 

So  floats  the  fragrance  of  thy  love  round  me. 

All  speech  is  poor,  and  written  words  unmeaning 
Yet  such  I  ask,  blown  hither  by  some  wind, 
To  give  relief  to  this  too  perfect  knowledge, 

The  Silence  so  impresses  on  my  mind. 


THE  SPEECH  OF  SILENCE . 


71 


How  poor  the  love  that  needeth  word  or  message, 

To  banish  doubt  or  nourish  tenderness ; 

I  ask  them  but  to  temper  love’s  convictions 
The  Silence  all  too  fully  doth  express. 

Too  deep  the  language  which  the  spirit  utters ; 

Too  vast  the  knowledge  which  my  soul  hath  stirred. 
Send  some  white  ship  across  the  Sea  of  Silence, 

And  interrupt  its  utterance  with  a  word. 


72 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


CONVERSION. 

I  have  lived  this  life  as  the  skeptic  lives  it, 

I  have  said  the  sweetness  was  less  than  the  gall 

Praising,  nor  cursing,  the  Hand  that  gives  it, 

I  have  drifted  aimlessly  through  it  all. 

I  have  scoffed  at  the  tale  of  a  so-called  heaven, 

I  have  laughed  at  the  thought  of  a  Supreme  Friend  ; 

I  have  said  that  it  only  to  man  was  given 
To  live,  to  endure ;  and  to  die  was  the  end. 

But  now  I  know  that  a  good  God  reigneth, 
Generous-hearted,  and  kind  and  true  ; 

Since  unto  a  worm  like  me  he  deigneth 
To  send  so  royal  a  gift  as  you. 

Bright  as  a  star  you  gleam  on  my  bosom, 

Sweet  as  a  rose  that  the  wild  bee  sips  ; 

And  I  know,  my  own,  my  beautiful  blossom, 

That  none  but  a  God  could  mould  such  lips. 


CONVERSION. 


73 


And  I  believe,  in  the  fullest  measure 

That  ever  a  strong  man’s  heart  could  hold, 

In  all  the  tales  of  heavenly  pleasure 
By  poets  sung,  or  by  prophets  told  ; 

For  in  the  joy  of  your  shy,  sweet  kisses, 

/ 

Your  pulsing  touch  and  your  languid  sigh, 

I  am  filled  and  thrilled  with  better  blisses 
Than  ever  were  claimed  for  souls  on  high, 

And  now  I  have  faith  in  all  the  stories 
Told  of  the  beauties  of  unseen  lands ; 

Of  royal  splendors  and  marvellous  glories 
Of  the  golden  city  not  made  with  hands 
For  the  silken  beauty  of  falling  tresses, 

Of  lips  all  dewy  and  cheeks  aglow, 

With — what  the  mind  in  a  half  trance  guesses, 

Of  the  twin  perfection  of  drifts  of  snow. 

Of  limbs  like  marble,  of  thigh  and  shoulder, 
Carved  like  a  statue  in  high  relief — 

These,  as  the  eyes  and  the  thoughts  grow  bolder, 
Leave  no  room  for  an  unbelief. 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


Ph  4 

i  4 


So  my  lady,  my  queen  most  royal, 

My  skepticism  has  passed  away  ; 

If  you  are  true  to  me,  true  and  loyal, 
I  will  believe  till  the  Judgment-day, 


LOVE’S  COMING . 


75 


LOVE’S  COMING. 

* 

She  had  looked  for  his  coming  as  warriors  come, 

With  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  bugle’s  call ; 

But  he  came  instead  with  a  stealthy  tread, 

Which  she  did  not  hear  at  all. 

She  had  thought  how  his  armor  would  blaze  in  the  sun, 
As  he  rode  like  a  prince  to  claim  his  bride  : 

In  the  sweet  dim  light  of  the  falling  night 
She  found  him  at  her  side. 

She  had  dreamed  how  the  gaze  of  his  strange,  bold  eye 
Would  wake  her  heart  to  a  sudden  glow : 

She  found  in  his  face  the  familiar  grace 
Of  a  friend  she  used  to  know. 

She  had  dreamed  how  his  coming  would  stir  her  soul, 
As  the  ocean  is  stirred  by  the  wild  storm’s  strife  : 

He  brought  her  the  balm  of  a  heavenly  calm, 

And  a  peace  which  crowned  her  life. 


76 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


OLD  AND  NEW. 

Long  have  the  poets  vaunted,  in  their  lays, 

Old  times,  old  loves,  old  friendship,  and  old  wine. 

Why  should  the  old  monopolize  all  praise  ? 

Then  let  the  new  claim  mine. 

Give  me  strong  new  friends,  when  the  old  prove  weak, 
Or  fail  me  in  my  darkest  hour  of  need ; 

Why  perish  with  the  ship  that  springs  aleak, 

Or  lean  upon  a  reed  ? 

Give  me  new  love,  warm,  palpitating,  sweet, 

When  all  the  grace  and  beauty  leaves  the  old; 

When  like  a  rose  it  withers  at  my  feet, 

Or  like  a  hearth  grows  cold 

Give  me  new  times,  bright  with  a  prosperous  cheer, 

In  place  of  old,  tear-blotted,  burdened  days  ; 

I  hold  a  sunlit  present  far  more  dear, 

And  worthy  of  my  praise. 


OLD  ADD  NE IV. 


rr  rr* 

i  i 

When  the  old  creeds  are  threadbare,  and  worn  through, 
And  all  too  narrow  for  the  broadening  soul, 

Give  me  the  fine,  firm  texture  of  the  new, 

Fair,  beautiful  and  whole  ! 


78 


POEMS  OP  PASS/ON. 


PERFECTNESS. 

All  perfect  things  are  saddening  in  effect. 

The  autumn  wood  robed  in  irs  scarlet  clothes, 

The  matchless  tinting  on  the  royal  rose 
Whose  velvet  leaf  by  no  least  flaw  is  flecked. 

Love’s  supreme  moment,  when  the  soul  unchecked 
Soars  high  as  heaven,  and  its  best  rapture  knows, 
These  hold  a  deeper  pathos  than  our  woes, 

Since  they  leave  nothing  better  to  expect. 

Resistless  change,  when  powerless  to  improve, 

Can  only  mar.  The  gold  will  pale  to  gray — 

No  thing  remains  tomorrow  as  today, — 

The  rose  will  not  seem  quite  so  fair,  and  love 
Must  find  its  measures  of  delight  made  less. 

Ah,  how  imperfect  is  all  Perfectness! 


BLEAK  WEATHER. 


79 


BLEAK  WEATHER. 

Dear  Love,  where  the  red  lilies  blossomed  and  grew 
The  white  snows  are  falling  ; 

And  all  through  the  woods  where  I  wandered  with  you 
The  loud  winds  are  calling  ; 

And  the  robin  that  piped  to  us  tune  upon  tune, 

Neath  the  oak,  you  remember, 

O’er  hilltop  and  forest  has  followed  the  June 
And  left  us  December. 

He  has  left  like  a  friend  who  is  true  in  the  sun 
And  false  in  the  shadows  ; 

He  has  found  new  delights  in  the  land  where  he’s  gone, 
Greener  woodlands  and  meadows. 

Let  him  go!  what  care  we  ?  let  the  snow  shroud  the  lea 
Let  it  drift  on  the  heather  ; 

We  can  sing  through  it  all  :  I  have  you,  you  have  me, 
And  we’ll  laugh  at  the  weather. 


80 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


The  old  year  may  die  and  a  new  year  be  born 
That  is  bleaker  and  colder  : 

It  cannot  dismay  us  ;  we  dare  it,  we  scorn, 

For  our  love  makes  us  bolder. 

Ah,  Robin  !  sing  loud  on  your  far  distant  lea, 
You  friend  in  fair  weather ! 

But  here  is  a  song  sung  that’s  fuller  of  glee 
By  two  warm  hearts  together. 


ATTRACTION. 


8J 


ATTRACTION. 

The  meadow  and  the  mountain  with  desire 
Gazed  on  each  other,  till  a  fierce  unrest 
Surged  ’neath  the  meadow’s  seemingly  calm  breast. 
And  all  the  mountain’s  fissures  ran  with  fire. 

A  mighty  river  rolled  between  them  there. 

What  could  the  mountain  do  but  gaze  and  burn  ? 
What  could  the  meadow  do  but  look  and  yearn, 
And  gem  its  bosom  to  conceal  despair  ? 

Their  seething  passion  agitated  space, 

Till  lo  !  the  lands  a  sudden  earthquake  shook, 

The  river  fled  :  the  meadow  leaped,  and  took 
The  leaning  mountain  in  a  close  embrace. 


82 


POEMS  OF  PASSION, 


GRACIA. 

Nay,  nay,  Antonio !  nay,  thou  shall  not  blame  her, 
My  Gracia,  who  hath  so  deserted  me. 

Thou  art  my  friend  ;  but  if  thou  dost  defame  her 
I  shall  not  hesitate  to  challenge  thee. 

“  Curse  and  forget  her  ?  ”  so  I  might  another 
One  not  so  bounteous  natured  or  so  fair  ; 

But  she,  Antonio,  she  was  like  no  other — 

I  curse  her  not,  because  she  was  so  rare. 

She  was  made  out  of  laughter  and  sweet  kisses; 

Not  blood,  but  sunshine,  through  her  blue  veins  ran 
Her  soul  spilled  over  with  its  wealth  of  blisses, — 

She  was  too  great  for  loving  but  a  man. 

t 

None  but  a  god  could  keep  so  rare  a  creature — 

I  blame  her  not  for  her  inconstancy; 

When  I  recall  each  radiant  smile,  and  feature, 

I  wonder  she  so  long  was  true  to  me. 


GRACIA. 


Call  her  not  false  or  fickle.  I,  who  love  her, 

Do  hold  her  not  unlike  the  royal  sun, 

That,  all  unmated,  roams  the  wide  world  over 
And  lights  all  worlds,  but  lingers  not  with  one. 

If  she  were  less  a  goddess,  more  a  woman, 

And  so  had  dallied  for  a  time  with  me, 

And  then  had  left  me,  I,  who  am  but  human* 
Would  slay  her,  and  her  newer  love,  may  be. 

But  since  she  seeks  Apollo,  or  another 

Of  those  lost  gods  (and  seeks  him  all  in  vain), 
And  has  loved  me  as  well  as  anv  other 
Of  her  men-loves,  why,  I  do  not  complain. 


84 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


AD  FINEM. 

On  the  white  throat  of  the  useless  passion 

That  scorched  my  soul  with  its  burning  breath, 

I  clutched  my  fingers  in  murderous  fashion, 

And  gathered  them  close  in  a  grip  of  death ; 

For  why  should  I  fan,  or  feed  with  fuel, 

A  love  that  showed  me  but  blank  despair  ? 

So  my  hold  was  firm,  and  my  grasp  was  cruel — 

I  meant  to  strangle  it  then  and  there  ! 

I  thought  it  was  dead.  But  with  no  warning, 

It  rose  from  its  grave  last  night,  and  came 

And  stood  by  my  bed  till  the  early  morning, 

And  over  and  over  it  spoke  your  name. 

Its  throat  was  red  where  my  hands  had  held  it, 

It  burned  my  brow  with  its  scorching  breath ; 

And  I  said,  the  moment  my  eyes  beheld  it, 

“  A  love  like  this  can  know  no  death.” 


AD  FINEAI. 


85 


For  just  one  kiss  that  your  lips  have  given 
In  the  lost  and  beautiful  past  to  me, 

I  would  gladly  barter  my  hopes  of  Heaven 
And  all  the  bliss  of  Eternity. 

For  never  a  joy  are  the  angels  keeping 
To  lay  at  my  feet  in  Paradise, 

Like  that  of  into  your  strong  arms  creeping, 

And  looking  into  your  love-lit  eyes. 

I  know,  in  the  way  that  sins  are  reckoned, 

This  thought  is  a  sin  of  the  deepest  dye  ,j 
But  I  know,  too,  if  an  angel  beckoned, 

Standing  close  by  the  Throne  on  High, 

And  you,  adown  by  the  gates  infernal, 

Should  open  your  loving  arms  and  smile, 

I  would  turn  my  back  on  things  supernal, 

To  lie  on  your  breast  a  little  while. 

To  know  for  an  hour  you  were  mine  completely — 
Mine  in  body  and  soul,  my  own — 

I  would  bear  unending  tortures  sweetly, 

With  not  a  murmur  and  not  a  moan. 


86 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 

A  lighter  sin  or  a  lesser  error 

Might  change  through  hope  or  fear  divine 
But  there  is  no  fear,  and  hell  has  no  terror 
To  change  or  alter  a  love  like  mine. 


NEW  AND  OLD. 


87 


NEW  AND  OLD. 

I  and  new  love,  in  all  its  living  bloom, 

Sat  vis-a-vis ,  while  tender  twilight  hours 
Went  softly  by  us,  treading  as  on  flowers. 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  within  the  room 
The  old  love,  long  since  lying  in  its  tomb. 

It  dropped  the  cerecloth  from  its  fleshless  face 
*  And  smiled  on  me,  with  a  remembered  grace 
That,  like  the  noontide,  lit  the  gloaming’s  gloom. 

Upon  its  shroud  there  hung  the  grave’s  green  mould, 
About  it  hung  the  odor  of  the  dead  ; 

Yet  from  its  cavernous  eyes  such  light  was  shed 
That  all  my  life  seemed  gilded,  as  with  gold  ; 

Unto  the  trembling  new  love  “  Go,”  I  said, 

“  I  do  not  need  thee,  for  I  have  the  old.” 


88 


POEMS  OP  PASSION, . 


THE  TRIO. 

We  love  but  once.  The  great  gold  orb  of  light 
From  dawn  to  eventide  doth  cast  his  ray  ; 

But  the  full  splendor  of  his  perfect  might 

Is  reached  but  once  throughout  the  livelong  day. 

We  love  but  once.  The  waves,  with  ceaseless  motion, 
Do  day  and  night  plash  on  the  pebbled  shore  ; 

But  the  strong  tide  of  the  resistless  ocean 
Sweeps  in  but  one  hour  of  the  twenty-four. 

We  love  but  once.  A  score  of  times,  perchance, 

We  may  be  moved  in  fancy’s  fleeting  fashion — 

May  treasure  up  a  word,  a  tone,  a  glance, 

But  only  once  we  feel  the  soul’s  great  passion. 

We  love  but  once.  Love  walks  with  death  and  birth 
(The  saddest,  the  unkindest  of  the  three) ; 

And  only  once  while  we  sojourn  on  earth 
Can  that  strange  trio  come,  to  you  or  me. 


AN  ANSWER. 


\ 


»9 


AN  ANSWER. 

If  all  the  year  was  summertime, 

And  all  the  aim  of  life 
Was  just  to  lilt  on  like  a  rhyme — 

Then  I  would  be  your  wife. 

If  all  the  days  were  August  days, 

And  crowned  with  golden  weather, 

How  happy  then  through  green-clad  ways 
We  two  could  stray  together ! 

If  all  the  nights  were  moonlit  nights, 

And  we  had  naught  to  do 
But  just  to  sit  and  plan  delights, 

Then  I  would  wed  with  you. 

If  life  was  all  a  summer  fete, 

Its  soberest  pace  the  “  glide,” 

Then  I  would  choose  you  for  my  mate, 
And  keep  you  at  my  side. 


90 


POEMS  OF  PASSION". 


But  winter  makes  full  half  the  year, 

And  labor  half  of  life, 

And  all  the  laughter  and  good  cheer 
Give  place  to  wearing  strife. 

Days  will  grow  cold,  and  moons  wax  old, 

% 

And  then  a  heart  that’s-  true 
Is  better  far  than  grace  or  gold — 

And  so  my  love,  adieu  ! 

I  cannot  wed  with  you. 


YOU  WILL  FORGET  ME. 


91 


YOU  WILL  FORGET  ME. 

You  will  forget  me.  The  years  are  so  tender, 

They  bind  up  the  wounds  which  we  think  are  so  deep; 
This  dream  of  our  youth  will  fade  out  as  the  splendor 
Fades  from  the  skies  when  the  sun  sinks  to  sleep ; 
The  cloud  of  forgetfulness,  over  and  over 
Will  banish  the  last  rosy  colors  away, 

And  the  fingers  of  time  will  weave  garlands  to  cover 
The  scar  which  you  think  is  a  life-mark  to-day. 

You  will  forget  me.  The  one  boon  you  covet 
Now  above  all  things  will  soon  seem  no  prize, 

And  the  heart,  which  you  hold  not  in  keeping  to  prove  it 
True  or  untrue,  will  lose  worth  in  your  eyes. 

The  one  drop  today,  that  you  deem  only  wanting 
To  fill  your  life-cup  to  the  brim,  soon  will  seem 
But  a  valueless  mite  ;  and  the  ghost  that  is  haunting 
The  aisles  of  your  heart  will  pass  out  with  the  dream. 


92 


POEMS  OF  PASSION, 


You  will  forget  me  ;  will  thank  me  for  saying 

The  words  which  you  think  are  so  pointed  with  pain. 
Time  loves  a  new  lay  ;  and  the  dirge  he  is  playing 
Will  change  for  you  soon  to  a  livelier  strain. 

I  shall  pass  from  your  life — I  shall  pass  out  forever, 
And  these  hours  we  have  spent  will  be  sunk  in  the  past. 
Youth  buries  its  dead;  grief  kills  seldom  or  never — 
And  forgetfulness  covers  all  sorrows  at  last. 


THE  FAREWELL  OF  CLARIMONDE. 


93 


THE  FAREWELL  OF  CLARIMONDE. 

(SUGGESTED  BY  THE  “CLARIMONDE”  OF  THEOPHILE 

GAUTIER.) 

Adieu,  Romauld !  But  thou  canst  not  forget  me. 
Although  no  more  I  haunt  thy  dreams  at  night, 

Thy  hungering  heart  forever  must  regret  me, 

And  starve  for  those  lost  moments  of  delight. 

Naught  shall  avail  thy  priestly  rites  and  duties — 

Nor  fears  of  Hell,  nor  hopes  of  Heaven  beyond  : 
Before  the  Cross  shall  rise  my  fair  form’s  beauties — 
The  lips,  the  limbs,  the  eyes  of  Clarimonde. 

Like  gall  the  wine  sipped  from  the  sacred  chalice 
Shall  taste  to  one  who  knew  my  red  mouth’s  bliss  : 
When  Youth  and  Beauty  dwelt  in  Love’s  own  palace, 
And  life  flowed  on  in  one  eternal  kiss. 


94 


POEMS  OF  PASSION. 


Through  what  strange  ways  I  come,  dear  heart,  to  reach 
thee, 

From  viewless  lands,  by  paths  no  man  e’er  trod  ! 

I  braved  all  fears,  all  dangers  dared,  to  teach  thee 
A  love  more  mighty  than  thy  love  of  God. 

Think  not  in  all  His  Kingdom  to  discover 
Such  joys,  Romauld,  as  ours,  when  fierce  yet  fond 

I  clasped  thee  —  kissed  thee  —  crowned  thee  my  one 
lover  : 

Thou  canst  not  find  another  Clarimonde. 

I  knew  all  arts  of  love  :  he  who  possessed  me 
Possessed  all  women,  and  could  never  tire  : 

A  new  life  dawned  for  him  who  once  caressed  me  : 
Satiety  itself  I  set  on  fire. 

Inconstancy  I  chained  :  men  died  to  win  me  ; 

Kings  cast  by  crowns  for  one  hour  on  my  breast, 

And  all  the  passionate  tide  of  love  within  me 
I  gave  to  thee,  Romauld.  Wert  thou  not  blest  ? 


the  Farewell  of  clarimonde. 


Yet,  for  the  love  of  God,  thy  hand  hath  riven 
Our  welded  souls.  But  not  in  prayer  well  conned, 
Not  in  thy  dearly-purchased  peace  of  Heaven, 
Canst  thou  forget  those  hours  with  Clarimonde. 


’ 


. 


.  - 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  LOST  GARDEN. 

There  was  a  fair  green  garden  sloping 
From  the  southeast  side  of  the  mountain-ledge  : 
And  the  earliest  tint  of  the  dawn  came  groping 
Down  through  its  paths,  from  the  day’s  dim  edge. 
The  bluest  skies  and  the  reddest  roses 
Arched  and  varied  its  velvet  sod; 

And  the  glad  birds  sang,  as  the  soul  supposes 
The  angels  sing  on  the  hills  of  God. 

I  wandered  there  when  my  veins  seemed  bursting 
With  life’s  rare  rapture,  and  keen  delight ; 

And  yet  in  my  heart  was  a  constant  thirsting 
For  something  over  the  mountain-height. 


100 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  wanted  to  stand  in  the  blaze  of  glory 
That  turned  to  crimson  the  peaks  of  snow, 

And  the  winds  from  the  west  all  breathed  a  story 
Of  realms  and  regions  I  longed  to  know. 

I  saw  on  the  garden’s  south  side  growing 
The  brightest  blossoms  that  breathe  of  June-, 

I  saw  in  the  east  how  the  sun  was  glowing, 

And  the  gold  air  shook  with  a  wild  bird’s  tune  ; 

I  heard  the  drip  of  a  silver  fountain, 

And  the  pulse  of  a  young  laugh  throbbed  with  glee 
But  still  I  looked  out  over  the  mountain 
Where  unnamed  wonders  awaited  me. 

I  came  at  last  to  the  western  gateway 
That  led  to  the  path  I  longed  to  climb ; 

But  a  shadow  fell  on  my  spirit  straightway, 

For  close  at  my  side  stood  greybeard  Time. 

I  paused,  with  feet  that  were  fain  to  linger 
Hard  by  that  garden’s  golden  gate ; 

But  Time  spoke,  pointing  with  one  stern  finger  ; 
“Pass  on,”  he  said,  “for  the  day  grows  late.” 


THE  LOST  GARDEN. 


101 


And  now  on  the  chill  grey  cliffs  I  wander ; 

The  heights  recede  which  I  thought  to  find, 

And  the  light  seems  dim  on  the  mountain  yonder, 
When  I  think  of  the  garden  I  left  behind. 

Should  I  stand  at  last  on  its  summit’s  splendor, 

I  know  full  well  it  would  not  repay 

For  the  fair  lost  tints  of  the  dawn  so  tender 

That  crept  up  over  the  edge  o’  day. 

I  would  go  back,  but  the  ways  are  winding, 

If  ways  there  are  to  that  land,  in  sooth  ; 

For  what  man  succeeds  in  ever  finding 
A  path  to  the  garden  of  his  lost  youth  ? 

But  I  think  sometimes,  when  the  June  stars  glisten, 
That  a  rose-scent  drifts  from  far  away ; 

And  I  know,  when  I  lean  from  the  cliffs  and  listen, 
That  a  young  laugh  breaks  on  the  air  like  spray. 


102 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ART  AND  HEART. 

Though  critics  may  bow  to  art,  and  I  am  its  own  true 
lover, 

It  is  not  art,  but  heart,  which  wins  the  wide  world  over. 

Though  smooth  be  the  heartless  prayer,  no  ear  in 
Heaven  will  mind  it, 

And  the  finest  phrase  falls  dead,  if  there  is  no  feeling 
behind  it. 

Though  perfect  the  player’s  touch,  little  if  any  he  sways 
us, 

Unless  we  feel  his  heart  throb  through  the  music  he 
plays  us. 

Though  the  poet  may  spend  his  life  in  skilfully  round¬ 
ing  a  measure, 

Unless  he  writes  from  a  full  warm  heart,  he  gives  us 
little  pleasure. 


ART  AND  HEART, 


103 


So  is  not  the  speech  which  tells,  but  the  impulse  which 
goes  with  the  saying, 

And  it  is  not  the  words  of  the  prayer,  but  the  yearning 
back  of  the  praying. 

It  is  not  the  artist’s  skill,  which  into  our  soul  comes 
stealing 

With  a  joy  that  is  almost  pain,  but  it  is  the  player’s 
feeling. 

And  it  is  not  the  poet’s  song,  though  sweeter  than  sweet 
bells  chiming, 

Which  thrills  us  through  and  through,  but  the  heart 
which  beats  under  the  rhyming. 

And  therefore  I  say  again,  though  I  am  art’s  own  true 
lover, 

That  it  is  not  art,  but  heart,  which  wins  the  wide  world 


over. 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


AS  BY  FIRE. 

Sometimes  I  feel  so  passionate  a  yearning 
For  spiritual  perfection  here  below, 

This  vigorous  frame  with  healthful  fervor  burning, 
Seems  my  determined  foe. 

So  actively  it  makes  a  stern  resistance, 

So  cruelly  sometimes  it  wages  war 
Against  a  wholly  spiritual  existence 
Which  I  am  striving  for. 

It  interrupts  my  soul’s  intense  devotions, 

Some  hope  it  strangles  of  divinest  birth, 

With  a  swift  rush  of  violent  emotions 
Which  link  me  to  the  earth. 

It  is  as  if  two  mortal  foes  contended 
Within  my  bosom  in  a  deadly  strife, 

One  for  the  loftier  aims  for  souls  intended, 

One  for  the  earthly  life. 


AS  BY  FIRE. 


105 


And  yet  I  know  this  very  war  within  me, 

Which  brings  out  all  my  will-power  and  control ; 
This  very  conflict  at  the  last  shall  win  me 
The  loved  and  longed-for  goal. 

The  very  fire  which  seems  sometimes  so  cruel, 

Is  the  white  light,  that  shows  me  my  own  strength. 
A  furnace,  fed  by  the  divinest  fuel 
It  may  become  at  length. 

Ah  !  when  in  the  immortal  ranks  enlisted, 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  we  shall  not  find 
That  not  by  deeds,  but  by  what  we’ve  resisted, 

Our  places  are  assigned. 


106 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE. 

RONDEAU. 

If  I  should  die,  how  kind  you  all  would  grow, 

In  that  strange  hour  I  would  not  have  one  foe. 
There  are  no  words  too  beautiful  to  say 
Of  one  who  goes  forevermore  away 
Across  that  ebbing  tide  which  has  no  flow. 

< 

With  what  new  lustre  my  good  deeds  would  glow 
If  faults  were  mine,  no  one  would  call  them  so, 
Or  speak  of  me  in  aught  but  praise  that  day, 
If  I  should  die. 

Ah,  friends  !  before  my  listening  ear  lies  low, 
While  I  can  hear  and  understand,  bestow 

That  gentle  treatment  and  fond  love,  I  pray, 
The  lustre  of  whose  late  though  radiant  way 
Would  gild  my  grave  with  mocking  light,  I  know, 
If  I  should  die. 


\ 


MISALLIANCE.  107 

MISALLIANCE. 

I  am  troubled  to-night  with  a  curious  pain  ; 

It  is  not  of  the  flesh,  it  is  not  of  the  brain, 

Nor  yet  of  a  heart  that  is  breaking : 

But  down  still  deeper,  and  out  of  sight — 

In  the  place  where  the  soul  and  the  body  unite — 
There  lies  the  seat  of  the  aching. 

They  have  been  lovers,  in  days  gone  by ; 

But  the  soul  is  fickle,  and  longs  to  fly 
From  the  fettering  misalliance : 

And  she  tears  at  the  bonds  which  are  binding  her  so, 

And  pleads  with  the  body  to  let  her  go, 

But  he  will  not  yield  compliance. 

For  the  body  loves,  as  he  loved  in  the  past 

When  he  wedded  the  soul ;  and  he  holds  her  fast, 

And  swears  that  he  will  not  loose  her ; 

That  he  will  keep  her  and  hide  her  away 

For  ever  and  ever  and  for  a  day 

From  the  arms  of  Death,  the  seducer. 


108 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Ah !  tms  is  the  strife  that  is  wearying  me — • 
The  strife  ’twixt  a  soul  that  would  be  free 
And  a  body  that  will  not  let  her. 

And  I  say  to  my  soul,  “Be  calm,  and  wait; 
For  I  tell  ye  truly  that  soon  or  late 
Ye  surely  shall  drop  each  fetter. 

And  I  say  to  the  body,  “  Be  kind,  I  pray  ; 
For  the  soul  is  not  of  thy  mortal  clay, 

But  is  formed  in  spirit  fashion.” 

And  still  through  the  hours  of  the  solemn  ni 
I  can  hear  my  sad  soul’s  plea  for  flight, 

And  my  body’s  reply  of  passion. 


RESPONSE. 


109 


RESPONSE. 

I  said  this  morning,  as  I  leaned  and  threw 
My  shutters  open  to  the  Spring’s  surprise, 

“Tell  me,  O  Earth,  how  is  it  that  in  you 
Year  after  vear  the  same  fresh  feelings  rise  ? 

j  o 

How  do  you  keep  your  young  exultant  glee  ? 

No  more  those  sweet  emotions  come  to  me. 

“  I  note  through  all  your  fissures,  how  the  tide 
Of  healthful  life  goes  leaping  as  of  old. 

Your  royal  dawns  retain  their  pomp  and  pride  ; 

Your  sunsets  lose  no  atom  of  their  gold. 

How  can  this  wonder  be  ?  ”  My  soul’s  fine  ear 
Leaned,  listening,  till  a  small  voice  answered  near  : 

“  My  days  lapse  never  over  into  night ; 

My  nights  encroach  not  on  the  rights  5f  dawn. 

I  rush  not  breathless  after  some  delight ; 

I  waste  no  grief  for  any  pleasure  gone. 

My  July  noons  burn  not  the  entire  year. 

Heart,  hearken  well  !  ”  Yes,  yes ;  go  on  ;  I  hear. 


110 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


“  I  do  not  strive  to  make  my  sunsets’  gold 
Pave  all  the  dim  and  distant  realms  of  space. 

I  do  not  bid  my  crimson  dawns  unfold 
To  lend  the  midnight  a  fictitious  grace. 

I  break  no  law,  for  all  God’s  laws  are  good. 

Heart,  hast  thou  heard?”  Yes,  yes;  and  understood. 


DROUTH, 


111 


DROUTH. 

Why  do  we  pity  those  who  weep  ?  The  pain 
That  finds  a  ready  outlet  in  the  flow 
Of  salt  and  bitter  tears  is  blessed  woe, 

And  does  not  need  our  sympathies.  The  rain 
But  fits  the  shorn  field  for  new  yield  of  grain  ; 
While  the  red  brazen  skies,  the  sun’s  fierce  glow, 
The  dry,  hot  winds  that  from  the  tropics  blow 
Do  parch  and  wither  the  unsheltered  plain. 

The  anguish  that  through  long,  remorseless  years 
Looks  out  upon  the  world  with  no  relief, 

Of  sudden  tempests  or  slow  dripping  tears,— 

The  still,  unuttered,  silent,  wordless  grief 
That  evermore  doth  ache,  and  ache,  and  ache, — 
This  is  the  sorrow  wherewith  hearts  do  break. 


112 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  CREED. 

Whoever  was  begotten  by  pure  love, 

And  came  desired  and  welcome  into  life, 

Is  of  immaculate  conception.  He 

Whose  heart  is  full  of  tenderness  and  truth, 

Who  loves  mankind  more  than  he  loves  Himself, 
And  cannot  find  room  in  His  heart  for  hate, 

May  be  another  Christ.  We  all  may  be 
The  Saviours  of  the  world,  if  we  believe 
In  the  Divinity  which  dwells  in  us 
And  worship  it,  and  nail  bur  grosser  selves, 

Our  tempers,  greeds,  and  our  unworthy  aims, 
Upon  the  cross.  Who  giveth  love  to  all, 

Pays  kindness  for  unkindness,  smiles  for  frowns, - 
And  lends  new  courage  to  each  fainting  heart, 
And  strengthens  hope  and  scatters  joy  abroad, 
He,  too,  is  a  Redeemer,  Son  of  God. 


PROGRESS. 


113 


PROGRESS. 

Let  there  be  many  windows  to  your  soul, 

That  all  the  glory  of  the  universe 

May  beautify  it.  Not  the  narrow  pane 

Of  one  poor  creed  can  catch  the  radiant  rays 

That  shine  from  countless  sources.  Tear  away 

The  blinds  of  superstition ;  let  the  light 

Pour  through  fair  windows  broad  as  Truth  itself 

And  high  as  God. 

Why  should  the  spirit  peer 
Through  some  priest-curtained  orifice,  and  grope 
Along  dim  corridors  of  doubt,  when  all 
The  splendor  from  unfathomed  seas  of  space 
Might  bathe  it  with  the  golden  waves  of  Love  ? 

Sweep  up  the  debris  of  decaying  faiths ; 

Sweep  down  the  cobwebs  of  worn-out  beliefs, 

And  throw  your  soul  wide  open  to  the  light 
Of  Reason  and  of  Knowledge.  Tune  your  ear 


114 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


To  all  the  wordless  music  of  the  stars 
And  to  the  voice  of  Nature,  and  your  heart 
Shall  turn  to  truth  and  goodness,  as  the  plant 
Turns  to  the  sun.  A  thousand  unseen  hands 
Reach  down  to  help  you  to  their  peace-crowned  hei 
And  all  the  forces  of  the  firmament 
Shall  fortify  your  strength.  Be  not  afraid 
To  thrust  aside  half-truths  and  grasp  the  whole. 


MY  FRIEND. 


115 


MY  FRIEND. 

When  first  I  looked  upon  the  face  of  Pain 
I  shrunk  repelled,  as  one  shrinks  from  a  foe 
Who  stands  with  dagger  poised,  as  for  a  blow. 

I  was  in  search  of  Pleasure  and  of  Gain  ; 

I  turned  aside  to  let  him  pass  :  in  vain  ; 

He  looked  straight  in  my  eyes  and  would  not  go. 

“  Shake  hands,”  he  said,  “  our  paths  are  one,  and  so 
We  must  be  comrades  on  the  way,  ’tis  plain.” 

I  felt  the  firm  clasp  of  his  hand  on  mine ; 

Through  all  my  veins  it  sent  a  strengthening  glow. 

I  straightway  linked  my  arm  in  his,  and  lo  ! 

He  led  me  forth  to  joys  almost  divine ; 

With  God’s  great  truths  enriched  me  in  the  end, 

And  now  I  hold  him  as  my  dearest  friend. 


116 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


RED  CARNATIONS. 

One  time  in  Arcadie’s  fair  bowers 
There  met  a  bright  immortal  band, 

To  choose  their  emblems  from  the  flowers 
That  made  an  Eden  of  that  land. 

Sweet  Constancy,  with  eyes  of  hope, 
Strayed  down  the  garden  path  alone 

And  gathered  sprays  of  heliotrope, 

To  place  in  clusters  at  her  zone. 

True  Friendship  plucked  the  ivy  green, 
Forever  fresh,  forever  fair. 

Inconstancy  with  flippant  mien 

The  fading  primrose  chose  to  wear. 

One  moment  Love  the  rose  paused  by ; 
But  Beauty  picked  it  for  her  hair. 

Love  paced  the  garden  with  a  sigh, — 

He  found  no  fitting  emblem  there. 


RED  EARN  A  TIG  NS. 


117 


Then  suddenly  he  saw  a  flame ; 

A  conflagration  turned  to  bloom. 

It  even  put  the  rose  to  shame, 

Both  in  its  beauty  and  perfume. 

He  watched  it,  and  it  did  not  fade; 

He  plucked  it,  and  it  brighter  grew. 

In  cold  or  heat,  all  undismayed, 

It  kept  its  fragrance  and  its  hue. 

Here  deathless  love  and  passion  sleep,” 
He  cried,  “  embodied  in  this  flower. 
This  is  the  emblem  I  will  keep.” 

Love  wore  carnations  from  that  hour. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

LIFE  IS  TOO  SHORT. 

Life  is  too  short  for  any  vain  regretting  ; 

Let  dead  delight  bury  its  dead,  I  say, 

And  let  us  go  upon  our  way  forgetting 
The  joys,  and  sorrows,  of  each  yesterday. 

Between  the  swift  sun’s  rising  and  its  setting, 

We  have  no  time  for  useless  tears  or  fretting, 

Life  is  too  short. 

Life  is  too  short  for  any  bitter  feeling; 

Time  is  the  best  avenger  if  we  wait, 

The  years  speed  by,  and  on  their  wings  bear  healin 
We  have  no  room  for  anything  like  hate. 

This  solemn  truth  the  low  mounds  seem  revealing 
That  thick  and  fast  about  our  feet  are  stealing, 

Life  is  too  short. 

Life  is  too  short  for  aught  but  high  endeavor, — 
Too  short  for  spite,  but  long  enough  for  love. 

And  love  lives  on  forever  and  forever, 

It  links  the  worlds  that  circle  on  above ; 

’Tis  God’s  first  law,  the  universe’s  lever. 

In  His  vast  realm  the  radiant  souls  sigh  never 


“  Life  is  too  short.” 


A  SCULPTOR. 


119 


A  SCULPTOR. 

As  the  ambitious  sculptor,  tireless,  lifts 
Chisel  and  hammer  to  the  block  at  hand, 

Before  my  half-formed  character  I  stand 
And  ply  the  shining  tools  of  mental  gifts. 

I’ll  cut  away  a  huge,  unsightly  side, 

Of  selfishness,  and  smooth  to  curves  of  grace 
The  angles  of  ill-temper. 

And  no  trace 

Shall  my  sure  hammer  leave  of  silly  pride. 

Chip  after  chip  must  fall  from  vain  desires, 

And  the  sharp  corners  of  my  discontent 
Be  rounded  into  symmetry,  and  lent 
Great  harmony  by  faith  that  never  tires. 

Unfinished  still,  I  must  toil  on  and  on, 

Till  the  pale  critic,  Death,  shall  say,  “  ’Tis  done. 


120 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


CREATION. 

The  impulse  of  all  love  is  to  create. 

God  was  so  full  of  love,  in  his  embrace 
He  clasped  the  empty  nothingness  of  space, 

And  lo  !  the  solar  system  !  High  in  state 
The  mighty  sun  sat,  so  supreme  and  great 
With  this  same  essence,  one  smile  of  its  face 
Brought  myriad  forms  of  life  forth  ;  race  on  race 
From  insects  up  to  men. 

Through  love,  not  hate, 

All  that  is  grand  in  nature  or  in  art 

Sprang  into  being.  He  who  would  build  sublime 
And  lasting  works,  to  stand  the  test  of  time 
Must  inspiration  draw  from  his  full  heart. 

And  he  who  loveth  widely,  well  and  much, 

The  secret  holds  of  the  true  master  touch. 


BE  YOND. 


121 


BEYOND. 

It  seemeth  such  a  little  way  to  me 

Across  to  that  strange  country — the  Beyond ; 

And  yet,  not  strange,  for  it  has  grown  to  be 
The  home  of  those  of  whom  I  am  so  fond, 

Thev  make  it  seem  familiar  and  most  dear, 

As  journeying  friends  bring  distant  regions  near. 

So  close  it  lies,  that  when  my  sight  is  clear 
I  think  I  almost  see  the  gleaming  strand. 

I  know  I  feel  those  who  have  gone  from  here 
Come  near  enough  sometimes,  to  touch  my  hand. 
I  often  think,  but  for  our  veiled  eyes, 

We  should  find  Heaven  right  round  about  us  lies. 

I  cannot  make  it  seem  a  day  to  dread, 

When  from  this  dear  earth  I  shall  journey  out 
To  that  still  dearer  country  of  the  dead, 

And  join  the  lost  ones,  so  long  dreamed  about. 

I  love  this  world,  yet  shall  I  love  to  go 

And  meet  the  friends  who  wait  for  me,  I  know. 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS  FOE  MS. 


I  never  stand  above  a  bier  and  see 

The  seal  of  death  set  on  some  well-loved  face 
But  that  I  think,  “  One  more  to  welcome  me, 
When  I  shall  cross  the  intervening  space 
Between  this  land  and  that  one  £  over  there  ’ ; 
One  more  to  make  the  strange  Beyond  seem  fair. 

And  so  for  me  there  is  no  sting  to  death, 

And  so  the  grave  has  lost  its  victory. 

It  is  but  crossing — with  a  bated  breath, 

And  white,  set  face — a  little  strip  of  sea, 

To  find  the  loved  ones  waiting  on  the  shore, 
More  beautiful,  more  precious  than  before. 


THE  SADDEST  HOUR . 


123 


THE  SADDEST  HOUR. 

The  saddest  hour  of  anguish  and  of  loss 
Is  not  that  season  of  supreme  despair 
When  we  can  find  no  least  light  anywhere 
To  gild  the  dread,  black  shadow  of  the  Cross. 

Not  in  that  luxury  of  sorrow  when 

We  sup  on  salt  of  tears,  and  drink  the  gall 
Of  memories  of  days  beyond  recall — 

Of  lost  delights  that  cannot  come  again. 

But  when,  with  eyes  that  are  no  longer  wet, 

We  look  out  on  the  great,  wide  world  of  men, 
And,  smiling,  lean  toward  a  bright  tomorrow, 

Then  backward  shrink,  with  sudden  keen  regret, 
To  find  that  we  are  learning  to  forget: 

Ah  !  then  we  face  the  saddest  hour  of  sorrow. 


124 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


SHOW  ME  THE  WAY. 

Show  me  the  way  that  leads  to  the  true  life. 

I  do  not  care  what  tempests  may  assail  me, 

I  shall  be  given  courage  for  the  strife, 

I  know  my  strength  will  not  desert  or  fail  me; 

I  know  that  I  shall  conquer  in  the  fray : 

Show  me  the  way. 

Show  me  the  way  up  to  a  higher  plane, 

Where  body  shall  be  servant  to  the  soul. 

I  do  not  care  what  tides  of  woe,  or  pain, 

Across  my  life  their  angry  waves  may  roll, 

If  I  but  reach  the  end  I  seek  some  day  : 

Show  me  the  way. 

Show  me  the  way,  and  let  me  bravely  climb 
Above  vain  grievings  for  unworthy  treasures ; 

Above  all  sorrow  that  finds  balm  in  time — 

Above  small  triumphs,  or  belittling  pleasures  ; 

Up  to  those  heights  where  these  things  seem  child’s  play 

Show  me  the  way. 


SHOW  ME  THE  WAY. 


125 


Show  me  the  way  to  that  calm,  perfect  peace 

Which  springs  from  an  inward  consciousness  of  right ; 
To  where  all  conflicts  with  the  flesh  shall  cease, 

And  self  shall  radiate  with  the  spirit’s  light. 

Though  hard  the  journey  and  the  strife,  I  pray 

Show  me  the  way. 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MY  HERITAGE. 

I  into  life  so  full  of  love  was  sent, 

That  all  the  shadows  which  fall  on  the  way 
Of  every  human  being,  could  not  stay, 

But  fled  before  the  light  my  spirit  lent, 

I  saw  the  world  through  gold  and  crimson  dyes  : 

Men  sighed,  and  said,  “  Those  rosy  hues  will  fade 
As  you  pass  on  into  the  glare  and  shade  !  ” 

Still  beautiful  the  way  seems  to  mine  eyes. 

They  said,  “You  are  too  jubilant  and  glad; 

The  world  is  full  of  sorrow  and  of  wrong. 

Full  soon  your  lips  shall  breathe  forth  sighs — not 
song  !  ” 

The  day  wears  on,  and  yet  I  am  not  sad. 

They  said,  “You  love  too  largely,  and  you  must 

Through  wound  on  wound,  grow  bitter  to  your  kind.” 
They  were  false  prophets ;  day  by  day  I  find 
More  cause  for  love,  and  less  cause  for  distrust. 


MY  HERMITAGE. 


127 


They  said,  “  Too  free  you  give  your  soul’s  rare  wine  ; 
The  world  will  quaff,  but  it  will  not  repay.” 

Yet  into  the  emptied  flagons,  day  by  day, 

True  hearts  pour  back  a  nectar  as  divine. 

Thy  heritage  !  Is  it  not  love’s  estate  ? 

Look  to  it,  then,  and  keep  its  soil  well  tilled. 

I  hold  that  my  best  wishes  are  fulfilled 
Because  I  love  so  much,  and  cannot  hate. 


128 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


RESOLVE. 

Build  on  resolve,  and  not  upon  regret, 

The  structure  of  thy  future.  Do  not  grope 
Among  the  shadows  of  old  sins,  but  let 

Thine  own  soul’s  light  shine  on  the  path  of  hope 
And  dissipate  the  darkness.  Waste  no  tears 
Upon  the  blotted  record  of  lost  years, 

But  turn  the  leaf,  and  smile,  oh,  smile,  to  see 
The  fair  white  pages  that  remain  for  thee. 

Prate  not  of  thy  repentance.  But  believe 
The  spark  divine  dwells  in  thee  :  let  it  grow. 
That  which  the  upreaching  spirit  can  achieve 
The  grand  and  all  creative  forces  know ; 

They  will  assist  and  strengthen  as  the  light 
Lifts  up  the  acorn  to  the  oak-tree’s  height. 

Thou  hast  but  to  resolve,  and  lo  !  God’s  whole 
Great  universe  shall  fortify  thy  soul. 


AT  ELEUSIS. 


129 


AT  ELEUSIS. 

I,  at  Eleusis,  saw  the  finest  sight, 

When  early  morning’s  banners  were  unfurled. 
From  high  Olympus,  gazing  on  the  world, 

The  ancient  gods  once  saw  it  with  delight. 

Sad  Demeter  had  in  a  single  night 

Removed  her  sombre  garments  !  and  mine  eyes 
Beheld  a  ’broidered  mantle  in  pale  dyes 
Thrown  o’er  her  throbbing  bosom.  Sweet  and  clear 
There  fell  the  sound  of  music  on  mine  ear. 

And  from  the  South  came  Hermes,  he  whose  lyre 
One  time  appeased  the  great  Apollo’s  ire. 

The  rescued  maid,  Persephone,  by  the  hand, 

He  led  to  waiting  Demeter,  and  cheer 
And  light  and  beauty  once  more  blessed  the  land. 


130 


MISCELLANEOUS  FOE  MS. 


COURAGE. 

There  is  a  courage,  a  majestic  thing 

That  springs  forth  from  the  brow  of  pain,  full-grown 
Minerva-like,  and  dares  all  dangers  known, 

And  all  the  threatening  future  yet  may  bring ; 
Crowned  with  the  helmet  of  great  suffering, 

Serene  with  that  grand  strength  by  martyrs  shown, 
When  at  the  stake  they  die  and  make  no  moan, 
And  even  as  the  flames  leap  up  are  heard  to  sing. 

A  courage  so  sublime  and  unafraid, 

It  wears  its  sorrows  like  a  coat  of  mail ; 

And  fate,  the  archer,  passes  by  dismayed, 

Knowing  his  best  barbed  arrows  needs  must  fail 
To  pierce  a  soul  so  armored  and  arrayed 

That  death  himself  might  look  on  it  and  quail. 


SOLITUDE. 


131 


SOLITUDE. 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you  ; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone, 

For  the  sad  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 
But  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 

Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer ; 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  on  the  air, 

The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 

But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you ; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go. 

They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 
But  they  do  not  need  your  woe. 

Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many  ; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all, — 

There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectar’d  wine, 
But  alone  yo*'  must  drink  life’s  gall. 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded 
Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by. 

Succeed  and  give,  and  it  helps  you  live, 
But  no  man  can  help  you  die. 

There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 
For  a  large  and  lordly  train, 

But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 
Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 


THE  YEAR  OUTGROWS  THE  SPRING. 


133 


THE  YEAR  OUTGROWS  THE  SPRING. 

The  year  outgrows  the  spring  it  thought  so  sweet 
And  clasps  the  summer  with  a  new  delight, 

Yet  wearied,,  leaves  her  languors  and  her  heat 
When  cool-browed  autumn  dawns  upon  his  sight. 

The  tree  outgrows  the  bud’s  suggestive  grace 
And  feels  new  pride  in  blossoms  fully  blown. 

But  even  this  to  deeper  joy  gives  place 

When  bending  boughs  ’neath  blushing  burdens  groan. 

Life’s  rarest  moments  are  derived  from  change. 

The  heart  outgrows  old  happiness,  old  grief, 

And  suns  itself  in  feelings  new  and  strange. 

The  most  enduring  pleasure  is  but  brief. 

Our  tastes,  our  needs,  are  never  twice  the  same. 

Nothing  contents  us  long,  however  dear. 

The  spirit  in  us,  like  the  grosser  frame, 

Outgrows  the  garments  which  it  wore  last  year. 


134 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Change  is  the  watchword  of  Progression.  When 
We  tire  of  well-worn  ways,  we  seek  for  new. 

This  restless  craving  in  the  souls  of  men 

Spurs  them  to  climb,  and  seek  the  mountain  view. 

So  let  who  will  erect  an  altar  shrine 

To  meek-browed  Constancy,  and  sing  her  praise. 
Unto  enlivening  Change  I  shall  build  mine, 

Who  lends  new  zest,  and  interest  to  my  day. 


1  HE  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 


135 


THF  BEAUTIFUL  LAND  OF  NOD. 

Come,  cuddle  your  head  on  my  shoulder,  dear, 

Your  head  like  the  golden-rod, 

And  we  will  go  sailing  away  from  here 
To  the  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 

Away  from  life’s  hurry,  and  flurry,  and  worry, 

Away  from  earth’s  shadows  and  gloom, 

To  a  world  of  fair  weather  we’ll  float  off  together 
Where  roses  are  always  in  bloom. 

Just  shut  up  your  eyes,  and  fold  your  hands, 

Your  hands  like  the  leaves  of  a  rose, 

And  we  will  go  sailing  to  those  fair  lands 
'  That  never  an  atlas  shows. 

On  the  North  and  the  West  they  are  bounded  by  rest, 
On  the  South  and  the  East,  by  dreams ; 

’Tis  the  country  ideal,  where  nothing  is  real, 

But  everything  only  seems. 


136 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Just  drop  down  the  curtains  of  your  dear  eyes, 
Those  eyes  like  a  bright  blue-bell, 

And  we  will  sail  out  under  starlit  skies, 

To  the  land  where  the  fairies  dwell. 

Down  the  river  of  sleep,  our  barque  shall  sweep, 

Till  it  reaches  that  mystical  Isle 
Which  no  man  hath  seen,  but  where  all  have  been, 
And  there  we  will  pause  awhile. 

I  will  croon  you  a  song  as  we  float  along, 

To  that  shore  that  is  blessed  of  God, 

Then  ho  !  for  that  fair  land,  we’re  off  for  that  rare  land, 
That  beautiful  Land  of  Nod. 


THE  TIGER . 


137 


THE  TIGER. 

In  the  still  jungle  of  the  senses  lay 

A  tiger  soundly  sleeping,  till  one  day 

A  bold  young  hunter  chanced  to  come  that  way. 

“  How  calm/’  he  said,  “  that  splendid  creature  lies, 
I  long  to  rouse  him  into  swift  surprise  !  ” 

The  well  aimed  arrow-shot  from  amorous  eyes, 

And  lo  !  the  tiger  rouses  up  and  turns, 

A  coal  of  fire  his  glowing  eyeball  burns, 

His  mighty  frame  with  savage  hunger  yearns. 

He  crouches  for  a  spring  ;  his  eyes  dilate — 

Alas  !  bold  hunter,  what  shall  be  thy  fate  ? 

Thou  canst  not  fly,  it  is  too  late,  too  late. 

Once  having  tasted  human  flesh,  ah  !  then, 

Woe,  woe  unto  the  whole  rash  world  of  men, 

The  wakened  tiger  will  not  sleep  .again. 


•  138 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ONLY  A  SIMPLE  RHYME. 

Only  a  simple  rhyme  of  love  and  sorrow, 

Where  “  blisses  ”  rhymed  with  “  kisses,”  “  heart, 
with  “  dart.” 

Yet,  reading  it,  new  strength  I  seemed  to  borrow, 
To  live  on  bravely,  and  to  do  my  part. 

A  little  rhyme  about  a  heart  that’s  bleeding — - 
Of  lonely  hours,  and  sorrow’s  unrelief. 

I  smiled  at  first ;  but  there  came  with  the  reading, 
A  sense  of  sweet  companionship  in  grief. 

The  selfishness  of  my  own  woe  forsaking, 

I  thought  about  the  singer  of  that  song. 

Some  other  breast  felt  this  same  weary  aching, 
Another  found  the  summer  days  too  long. 

The  few  sad  lines,  my  sorrow  so  expressing, 

I  read,  and  on  the  singer,  all  unknown, 

I  breathed  a  fervent,  though  a  silent,  blessing, 

And  seemed  to  clasp  his  hand  within  my  own. 


ONL  Y  A  SIMPLE  RHYME. 


139 


And  though  fame  pass  him,  and  he  never  know  it, 
And  though  he  never  sings  another  strain, 

He  has  performed  the  mission  of  the  poet, 

In  helping  some  sad  heart  to  bear  its  pain. 


J.40 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


\  WILL  BE  WORTHY  OF  IT. 

I  may  not  reach  the  heights  I  seek, 
My  untried  strength  may  fail  me  ; 
Or,  half-way  up  the  mountain  peak 
Fierce  tempests  may  assail  me. 

But  though  that  place  I  never  gain, 
Herein  lies  comfort  for  my  pain — 

I  will  be  worthy  of  it. 


I  may  not  triumph  in  success, 

Despite  my  earnest  labor  ; 

I  may  not  grasp  results  that  bless 
The  efforts  of  my  neighbor. 

But  though  my  goal  I  never  see 
This  thought  shall  always  dwell  with  me 
I  will  be  worthy  of  it. 


i  WILL  FF  WORTHY  OF  11. 


141 


The  golden  glory  of  Love’s  light 
May  never  fall  on  my  way  ; 

My  path  may  always  lead  through  night, 
Like  some  deserted  by-way 
But  though  life’s  dearest  joy  I  miss 
There  lies  a  nameless  strength  in  this — * 
I  will  be  worthy  of  it. 


142 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


SONNET. 

Methinks  ofttimes  my  heart  is  like  some  bee, 

That  goes  forth  through  the  summer  day  and  sings, 
And  gathers  honey  from  all  growing  things 
In  garden  plot,  or  on  the  clover  lea. 

When  the  long  afternoon  grows  late,  and  she 
Would  seek  her  hive,  she  cannot  lift  her  wings, 

So  heavily  the  too  sweet  burden  clings, 

From  which  she  would  not,  and  yet  would,  fly  free. 

So  with  my  full  fond  heart  ;  for  when  it  tries 
To  lift  itself  to  peace-crowned  heights,  above 
The  common  way  where  countless  feet  have  trod, 

Lo !  then,  this  burden  of  dear  human  ties, 

This  growing  weight  of  precious  earthly  love, 

Binds  down  the  spirit  that  would  soar  to  God. 


LET  ME  LEAN  HARD . 


143 


LET  ME  LEAN  HARD. 

Let  me  lean  hard  upon  the  Eternal  Breast : 

In  all  earth’s  devious  ways,  I  sought  for  rest 
And  found  it  not.  I  will  be  strong,  said  1, 
And  lean  upon  myself.  I  will  not  crv 
And  importune  all  heaven  with  my  complaint, 
But  now  my  strength  fails,  and  I  fall,  I  faint : 

Let  me  lean  hard. 

Let  me  lean  hard  upon  the  unfailing  Arm. 

I  said  I  will  walk  on,  I  fear  no  harm, 

The  spark  divine  within  my  soul  will  show 
The  upward  pathway  where  my  feet  should  go. 

But  now  the  heights  to  which  I  most  aspire 
Are  lost  in  clouds.  I  stumble  and  I  tire  . 

Let  me  lean  hard. 

Let  me  lean  harder  yet.  That  swerveless  force 
Which  speeds  the  solar  systems  on  their  course 


144 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Can  take,  unfelt,  the  burden  of  my  woe, 
Which  bears  me  to  the  dust  and  hurts  me  so. 
I  thought  my  strength  enough  for  any  fate, 
But  lo !  I  sink  beneath  my  sorrow’s  weight : 

Let  me  lean  hard. 


PENALTY, 


145 


PENALTY. 

Because  of  the  fullness  of  what  I  had 
All  that  I  have  seems  void  and  vain. 

If  I  had  not  been  happy,  I  were  not  sad, 

Though  my  salt  is  savorless,  why  complain  ? 

From  the  ripe  perfection  of  what  was  mine, 

All  that  is  mine  seems  worse  than  naught. 

Yet  I  know  as  I  sit  in  the  dark  and  pine, 

No  cup  could  be  drained  which  had  not  been  fraught. 

From  the  throb,  and  thrill,  of  a  day  that  was, 

The  day  that  now  is  seems  dull  with  gloom. 

Yet  I  bear  its  dullness  and  darkness  because 
’Tis  but  the  reaction  of  glow  and  bloom. 

From  the  royal  feast  which  of  old  was  spread 
I  am  starved  on  the  diet  which  now  is  mine ; 

Yet  I  could  not  turn  hungry  from  water  and  bread, 

If  I  had  not  been  sated  on  fruit  and  wine. 


146 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


SUNSET. 

I  saw  the  day  lean  o’er  the  world’s  sharp  edge, 

And  peer  into  night’s  chasm,  dark  and  damp. 

High  in  his  hand  he  held  a  blazing  lamp, 

Then  dropped  it,  and  plunged  headlong  down  the  ledge. 

With  lurid  splendor  that  swift  paled  to  gray, 

I  saw  the  dim  skies  suddenly  flush  bright. 

’Twas  but  the  expiring  glory  of  the  light 
Flung  from  the  hand  of  the  adventurous  day. 


THE  WHEEL  OF  THE  BREAST 


147 


THE  WHEEL  OF  THE  BREAST, 


Through  rivers  of  veins  on  the  namelesss  quest 
The  tide  of  my  life  goes  hurriedly  sweeping, 
Till  it  reaches  that  curious  wheel  o’  the  breast, 
The  human  heart,  which  is  never  at  rest. 

Faster,  faster,  it  cries,  and  leaping, 

Plunging,  dashing,  speeding  away, 

The  wheel  and  the  river  work  night  and  day. 

I  know  not  wherefore,  I  know  not  whither 

This  strange  tide  rushes  with  such  mad  force  : 
It  glides  on  hither,  it  slides  on  thither, 

Over  and  over  the  selfsame  course, 

With  never  an  outlet  and  never  a  source  ; 

And  it  lashes  itself  to  the  heat  of  passion 
And  whirls  the  heart  in  mill-wheel  fashion. 


148 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  can  hear  in  the  hush  of  the  still,  still  night, 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  that  mighty  river  ; 

I  can  hear  it  gushing,  gurgling,  rushing 
With  a  wild,  delirious  strange  delight, 

And  a  conscious  pride  in  its  sense  of  might, 

As  it  hurries  and  worries  my  heart  forever. 

And  I  wonder  oft  as  I  lie  awake, 

And  list  to  the  river  that  seethes  and  surges 
Over  the  wheel  that  it  chides  and  urges, — 

I  wonder  oft  if  that  wheel  will  break 

With  the  mighty  pressure  it  bears,  some  day, 

Or  slowly  and  wearily  wear  away. 

For  little  by  little  the  heart  is  wearing, 

Like  the  wheel  of  the  mill,  as  the  tide  goes  tearing 
And  plunging  hurriedly  through  my  breast, 

In  a  network  of  veins  on  a  nameless  quest, 

From  and  forth,  unto  unknown  oceans, 

Bringing  its  cargoes  of  fierce  emotions, 

With  never  a  pause  or  an  hour  for  rest. 


A  MEETING. 


149 


A  MEETING. 

V^uite  carelessly  I  turned  the  newsy  sheet ; 

A  song  I  sang,  full  many  a  year  ago, 

Smiled  up  at  me,  as  in  a  busy  street 

One  meets  an  old-time  friend  he  used  to  know. 

So  full  it  was,  that  simple  little  song, 

Of  all  the  hope,  the  transport,  and  the  truth, 

Which  to  the  impetuous  morn  of  life  belong, 

That,  once  again,  I  seemed  to  grasp  my,  youth. 

So  full  it  was  of  that  sweet,  fancied  pain 
We  woo  and  cherish  ere  we  meet  with  wo. 

I  felt,  as  one  who  hears  a  plaintive  strain 
His  mother  sang  him  in  the  long  ago. 

Up  from  the  grave,  the  years  that  lay  between 
That  song’s  birthday  and  my  stern  present,  came 

Like  phantom  forms,  and  swept  across  the  scene, 
Bearing  their  broken  dreams  of  love  and  fame. 


150 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Fair  hopes  and  bright  ambitions  that  I  knew 
In  that  old  time,  with  their  ideal  grace, 
Shone  for  a  moment,  then  were  lost  to  view, 
Behind  the  dull  clouds  of  the  commonplace. 

With  trembling  hands  I  put  the  sheet  away ; 

Ah,  little  song !  the  sad  and  bitter  truth 
Struck  like  an  arrow  when  we  met  that  day ! 
My  life  has  missed  the  promise  of  its  youth. 


EARNESTNESS. 


151 


EARNESTNESS. 

The  hurry  of  the  times  affects  us  so 

In  this  swift  rushing  hour,  we  crowd,  and  press, 
And  thrust  each  other  backward,  as  we  go, 

And  do  not  pause  to  lay  sufficient  stress 
Upon  that  good,  strong,  true  word,  Earnestness. 
In  our  impetuous  haste,  could  we  but  know 
Its  full,  deep  meaning,  its  vast  import,  oh, 

Then  might  we  grasp  the  secret  of  success  ! 

In  that  receding  age  when  men  were  great, 

The  bone,  and  sinew,  of  their  purpose  lay 
In  this  one  word.  God  likes  an  earnest  soul — 
Too  earnest  to  be  eager.  Soon  or  late 

It  leaves  the  spent  horde  breathless  by  the  way, 
And  stands  serene,  triumphant,  at  the  goal. 


152 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS . 


A  PICTURE. 

I  strolled  last  eve  across  the  lonely  down, 
One  solitary  picture  struck  my  eye. 

A  distant  plowboy  stood  against  the  sky — 
How  far  he  seemed,  above  the  noisy  town  ! 

Upon  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  the  sod 

Laid  its  bruised  cheek,  as  he  moved  slowly 
And,  watching  him,  I  asked  myself  if  I 
In  very  truth  stood  half  as  near  to  God. 


MOCKERY. 


153 


MOCKERY. 

Why  do  we  grudge  our  sweets  so  to  the  living, 
Who,  God  knows,  find  at  best  too  much  of  gall, 

And  then  with  generous,  open  hands  kneel,  giving 
Unto  the  dead  our  all  ? 

Why  do  we  pierce  the  warm  hearts,  sin  or  sorrow, 
With  idle  jests,  or  scorn,  or  cruel  sneers, 

And  when  it  cannot  know,  on  some  to-morrow, 
Speak  of  its  woe  through  tears  ? 

What  do  the  dead  care  for  the  tender  token — 

The  love,  the  praise,  the  floral  offerings? 

But  palpitating,  living  hearts  are  broken 
For  want  of  just  these  things. 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


TWIN-BORN. 

He  who  possesses  virtue  at  its  best, 

Or  greatness  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 

Has  one  day  started  even  with  that  herd 
Whose  swift  feet  now  speed,  but  at  sin’s  behest. 

It  is  the  same  force  in  the  human  breast 

Which  makes  men  gods  or  demons.  If  we  gird 
Those  strong  emotions  by  which  we  are  stirred 
With  might  of  will  and  purpose,  heights  unguessed 
Shall  dawn  for  us  ;  or  if  we  give  them  sway 
We  can  sink  down  and  consort  with  the  lost. 

All  virtue  is  worth  just  the  price  it  cost. 

Black  sin  is  oft  white  truth,  that  missed  its  way, 
And  wandered  off  in  paths  not  understood. 
Twin-born  I  hold  great  evil  and  great  good. 


FLOODS. 


155 


FLOODS. 

In  the  dark  night,  from  sweet  refreshing  sleep 
I  wake  to  hear  outside  my  window-pane 
The  uncurbed  fury  of  the  wild  spring  rain, 

And  weird  winds  lashing  the  defiant  deep, 

And  roar  of  floods  that  gather  strength,  and  leap 
Down  dizzy,  wreck-strewn  channels  to  the  main. 

I  turn  upon  my  pillow,  and  again 
Compose  myself  for  slumber. 

Let  them  sweep  : 

I  once  survived  great  floods,  and  do  not  fear, 
Though  ominous  planets  congregate,  and  seem 
To  foretell  strange  disasters 

From  a  dream — 

Ah  !  dear  God  !  such  a  dream  ! — I  woke  to  hear, 
Through  the  dense  shadows  lit  by  no  stars  gleam, 
The  rush  of  mighty  waters  on  my  ear. 

Helpless,  afraid,  and  all  alone,  I  lay ; 

The  floods  had  come  upon  me  unaware. 


156 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  heard  the  crash  of  structures  that  were  fair; 
The  bridges  of  fond  hopes  were  swept  away 
By  great  salt  waves  of  sorrow.  In  dismay 
I  saw  by  the  red  lightning’s  lurid  glare 
That  on  the  rock-bound  island  of  despair 
I  had  been  cast.  Till  the  dim  dawn  of  day 
I  heard  my  castles  falling,  and  the  roll 
Of  angry  billows  bearing  to  the  sea 
The  broken  timbers  of  my  very  soul. 

Were  all  the  pent-up  waters  from  the  whole 
Stupendous  solar  system  to  break  free, 

There  are  no  floods  now  that  can  frighten  me. 


REGRET. 


157 


REGRET, 


There  is  a  haunting  phantom  called  Regret, 

A  shadowy  creature  robed  somewhat  like  Wo, 

But  fairer  in  the  face,  whom  all  men  know 
By  her  sad  mien,  and  eyes  forever  wet. 

No  heart  would  seek  her ;  but  once  having  met 
All  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  to  and  fro 
They  wander  through  those  paths  of  long  ago—* 
Those  hallowed  ways  ’twere  wiser  to  forget. 

One  day  she  led  me  to  that  lost  land’s  gate 
And  bade  me  enter ;  but  I  answered  “  No  ! 

I  will  pass  on  with  my  bold  comrade  Fate  ; 

I  have  no  tears  to  waste  on  thee —  no  time  — 
My  strength  I  hoard  for  heights  I  hope  to  climb, 
No  friend  art  thou,  for  souls  that  would  be  great.” 


158 


MISCELLANEOUS  FOE  MS. 


A  FABLE. 

Some  cawing  Crows,  a  hooting  Owl, 

A.  Hawk,  a  Canary,  an  old  Marsh-Fowl, 

One  day  all  met  together, 

To  hold  a  caucus  and  settle  the  fate 
Of  a  certain  bird  (without  a  mate), 

A  bird  of  another  feather. 

“  My  friends,”  said  the  Owl,  with  a  look  most  wise; 
The  Eagle  is  soaring  too  near  the  skies, 

In  a  way  that  is  quite  improper ; 

Yet  the  world  is  praising  her,  so  I’m  told, 

» 

And  I  think  her  actions  have  grown  so  bold 
That  some  of  us  ought  to  stop  her.” 

“  I  have  heard  it  said,”  quoth  Hawk,  with  a  sigh, 

“  That  young  lambs  died  at  the  glance  of  her  eye, 
And  I  wholly  scorn  and  despise  her. 

This,  and  more,  I  am  told  they  say — 

And  I  think  that  the  only  proper  way 
Is  never  to  recognize  her.” 


A  FABLE. 


159 


“  I  am  quite  convinced.”  said  Crow,  with  a  caw, 
“That  the  Eagle  minds  no  moral  law, 

She’s  a  most  unruly  creature.” 

“She’s  an  ugly  thing,”  piped  Canary  Bird ; 

“  Some  call  her  handsome — it’s  so  absurd — » 

She  hasn’t  a  decent  feature.” 


Then  the  old  Marsh  Hen  went  hopping  about, 

She  said  she  was  sure — she  hadn’t  a  doubt — 

* 

Of  the  truth  of  each  bird’s  story  : 

And  she  thought  it  a  duty  to  stop  her  flight, 
To  puli  her  down  from  her  lofty  height, 

And  take  the  gilt  from  her  glory. 


Bnt,  lo  !  from  a  peak  on  the  mountain  grand 
That  looks  out  over  the  smiling  land 
And  over  the  mighty  ocean, 

The  Eagle  is  spreading  her  splendid  wings — 
She  rises,  rises,  and  upward  swings, 

With  a  slow,  majestic  motion. 


16C 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Up  in  the  blue  of  God’s  own  skies, 

With  a  cry  of  rapture,  away  she  flies, 

Close  to  the  Great  Eternal : 

She  sweeps  the  world  with  her  piercing  sight- 
Her  soul  is  filled  with  the  infinite 
And  the  joy  of  things  supernal. 

Thus  rise  forever  the  chosen  of  God, 

The  genius-crowned  or  the  power-shod, 

Over  the  dust-world  sailing ; 

And  back,  like  splinters  blown  by  the  winds. 
Must  fall  the  missiles  of  silly  minds, 

Useless  and  unavailing. 


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